ARMAGEDDON SKY

To all you bonobos, wherever you are.

CHAPTER 1

KIRA ARCHED PERILOUSLY backward to dodge

her opponent's bat'leth, scraping her

heel on the edge of one carved bone step. She

stumbled and felt her way up the irregular steps with

one hand thrust out behind her. From both above and below, the

ancient Klingon courtyard echoed with the sounds of

fierce and bloody combat metallic crashes,

ground-shaking thuds, and occasional curses spat out

in the dozen languages Dax spoke fluently.

At least one of those had been Bajoran, and from its

breathless invocation of Prophetic aid, Kira

gathered the battle on the courtyard's floor

wasn't going well at all. Neither was the battle

on the shivering balcony above her--the thunder of booted

footsteps across it exploded abruptly into shattered

bone balustrade and splintered crystal floor

tiles. The cascade of debris startled Kira so

much that she almost missed the spectacle of Odo

whirling to the courtyard floor in a splash of

effluvium. In retrospect, she realized she should

have expected it. The constable had been all but forced

into joining Dax's holographic "defense of

honor"; during the preliminary arming ceremonies

he'd grumbled nonstop that the Trill's insistence

on authentic medieval Klingon armor was going

to exhaust his shape-changing abilities before his duty

shift even began that night. Odo might not have

been able to withstand Dax's wheedling any more than

Kira, but since he'd only agreed to participate

if he wasn't forced to use a bat'leth, he was

too pragmatic not to avail himself of the first

opportunity to remove himself from the combat.

Unfortunately, flinging herself into glorious, bloody

death was not exactly an option for Kira. Tearing

her eyes away from the still-rippling evidence of

Odo's demise, she refocused her attention on

the battle just in time to catch an armored elbow in the

face. The holographic Klingon warrior who had

backed her up the stairs might have been carefully

programmed by Worf to match her fighting skills,

but it hadn't been given her ability to be distracted

--or her underlying impatience with this ridiculous

ritual challenge. It wasn't a full-force blow

--Kira could have avoided it if she'd been paying

attention--but it was enough to stagger her off the stairs and

back down into the courtyard. She chased her balance

with two backward steps, then felt her heel come

down in something slick and rubbery. She realized

what-- who--it was an instant before her foot whisked

out from under her. Odo's gelatinous flinch had to have

been more from sympathy than any need on his part.

Kira pinwheeled to land without use of her

hands, worried for one absurd moment that she might

crush him. The jolt of discomfort that thumped up her

spine was enough to inspire a curse of her own, this time so

vile that even the Klingon looming over her blinked in

surprise. "That's it." She heaved her bat'leth

toward the open courtyard and called out, "Program

delete "Kira,"" just to watch the weapon

evaporate before it could hit the ground. "I quit."

Dax, chestnut hair loose and wild about her

armor-plated shoulders, threw Kira an

irritated scowl as she whirled to avoid a downward

lunge from Odo's former opponent, nimbly kicking

him in the teeth as she did so. "You can't quit!"

she complained, to both Kira and her own former

adversary, now leaning down to help Kira to her

feet. "What about the insult to my honor?" Odo

rippled with what might have been a snort if he'd

had the nose and lungs to produce it. He

extruded a rudimentary head big enough to remark,

"Either it doesn't require as much defense as you

thought, or you've picked the wrong warriors to help

defend it." The platter of gel under Kira's hand

twitched testily. "Major, if you don't

mind..." "Oh... sorry." Kira shifted her

weight as best she could, ignoring the clench of

indignant muscles across the small of her back.

Odo oozed out from under one hand, then the other. The

bulge at the top of the gelatin pool glided

smoothly into a humanoid outline, then sketched in

its own details of color, texture, and form.

"Come on, you guys." Dax's bat'leth struck

holographic sparks off holographic armor as

she swung around to confront Kira's former

attacker. Deprived by the holo-suite computer of

their programmed targets, both of Worf's

seconds were now closing in on the Trill. She

seemed more exasperated than intimidated by this

development. "You can't just walk away from our

Suv'batlh" Worf fastened a huge hand around

Kira's elbow. "It is not our Suv'batlh,"

he rumbled. His expression, always somewhat grim

by Bajoran standards, all but smoldered beneath the

shadows of his lacquered face-mask. Kira fitted

her hand between a seam in his armor's vainbrace, and

tried to take at least some of her own weight as the

big Klingon heaved her to her feet. "This is not

any Suv'batlh at all." If Dax

appreciated the thunder on Worf's dark face,

Kira saw no sign of it. "Speak for yourself," she

countered, knocking the second holographic

Klingon onto his back with a fierce swing of her

bat'leth, then thumping Worf in the small of his

back with the rounded edge of her weapon. "I'm not going

to stand by while you tell me where I can and can't go, like

I was one of your courtesans." Worf spun on

her, growling with all the fury of a ghar-wolf as he

seized her bat'leth in both hands. In that instant,

Kira appreciated how much of his Kling-on

nature he hid from them every moment of every day.

"Computer End program!" A polite,

nonintrusive chime wafted through the burning air of the

Dulloil desert, rippling the edges of meo

trees and Klingon-hewn stone until it seemed the

whole world was melting in the heat. By the time the computer

informed them, "Program ended," their slice of

ancient Klingon history had dissolved

down to four black walls and a gridwork of

intersecting lines. Kira felt the same startling

press of claustrophobia that always swarmed over her

when the holo-suite's illusion of openness was over.

"You make a mockery of an honorable tradition."

His words were accusatory, but Worf's tone sounded more

disappointed than angry. He released Dax's

weapon with a snarl. "I should not have accepted your

challenge." Dax shook her hair back from

her face, exposing the very unklingonlike spattering

of freckles at each temple. "I'm not trying

to mock anything." She looked tall and lanky in

her exoskeleton of Klingon armor; the intricate

structure of both rantou lacquer and bat'leth

stood out in even greater relief now that the

holo-suite's walls were all that surrounded them.

"You knew that going with the Victoria Adams was

important to me." Kira had heard this argument in

every permutation ever since the Terran science vessel

left the station two days ago, but the indignation in

Dax's voice still sounded freshly minted. "Do you have

any idea how many thousands of years it's going to be

until I get another chance to witness a cometary

deluge like this one?" "The rarity of an

astronomical event does not make it imperative

that every science officer in Starfleet view it,"

Worf informed her bluntly. "As station tactical

officer, I determined that your primary duty is

here. On DS9." Sighing, Kira wearily

popped the straps at the knee joints of her armor

and settled to the floor to wait out the debate. Dax

grounded her bat'leth with a thump that rang painful

echoes off the bare holo-suite walls. "On

DS9,

Commander Worf, my duty is to document all

scientific phenomena in and around this region of

space." "Not when a Starfleet research vessel

has already been dispatched expressly for the purpose

of observing that phenomenon," Worf snarled back.

"In that case, your duty consists "I know, I

know." The Trill's voice sizzled with a level of

annoyance that didn't quite match the wry glint in her

grey eyes. "Making sure the station is prepared for

all the possible scientific emergencies that might

arise. Emergencies that you felt the need

to enumerate in a four-page report that convinced

Benjamin he couldn't afford to let me go!" "It is

important for a commanding officer to know all the

strategic considerations that might influence his

decision. And the current situation with the Klingons--"

"No matter how many Klingons may or may not be

violating the Neutral Zone, the Victoria

Adams is no less likely to be attacked just

because I'm not on board." A hint of youthful

petulance crept into Dax's voice. "And I

wanted to watch the comets fall." Worf scowled, not

yielding. "The danger to the Victoria Adams is

beside the point. As a senior science officer, you are

too valuable to this station to risk yourself on

frivolous scientific tourist excursions." "How

about frivolous Honor Combats?" Dax

retorted, giving her bat'leth a twirl. The

tactical officer grunted, and Kira almost thought

she saw him flush. "Precisely why I should not have

accepted your challenge." That gruff admission was

apparently retreat enough for Dax. Her resilient,

puckish humor returned with a fierce smile.

"Admit it," she cajoled, dancing forward a step

to chuck his arm with the side of her bat'leth. "With the

Day of Honor coming up, you thought a little

Suv'batlh might be a fun way to celebrate the

holiday." Worf stiffened, but didn't pull

away. "Honor is not meant to be fun. And the

Batlh Jaj is not a holiday. It is the occasion

on which true Klingons re-affirm their own sense of

honor and commemorate the honor of their most

esteemed enemies." "Like Captain James T.

Kirk of the first Enterprise," Dax said, with a

mischievous smile. "My old friend Kor used

to demonstrate the esteem he felt for Kirk

by drinking an extra keg of blood wine on every

Batlh Jaj." "That," said Worf

repressively, "is not the correct way

to celebrate the Day of Honor." "Neither

is increasing the number of provocative intrusions

into the Klingon-Cardassian Neutral Zone, if

you ask me." Odo folded his hands atop updrawn

knees in unconscious mimicry of Kira. "It

makes me wonder if your people still believe in

celebrating the honor of their enemies, Commander."

"Not all enemies have honor," Worf growled.

"To those that do not, the Klingons owe no commemoration of

Batlh Jaj." Odo snorted. "From the

response we've been getting to this holiday of

yours, I'd say the Humans feel exactly the

same way about the Klingons." Kira found herself

forced to agree with that. While she thought the observance of

any Klingon holiday within the Federation a dubious

practice, considering

the recent tensions that had flared between the two former

enemies, she certainly hadn't expected the

violent antipathy that had ignited throughout the

Alpha Quadrant as preparations for the Day of

Honor drew near. On DS9--WHICH had

acknowledged the holiday for as long as the Federation had

kept a presence theretothere'd been a distinct

increase in racist grumbling. As the grumbling

increased, they'd gradually phased out plans for a

display of locally owned Klingon art, then the

Klingon food festival, and finally even the

re-enactment of the Klingons' traditional Honor

Combat--Suv'batlh--for fear of how station

personnel would respond to the Klingon costumes and

weapons. Worf shoved off his lacquered

battle-mask to reveal a grim face streaked with

rivulets of sweat. Dax might not have been winning

their face-to-face combat, but she'd certainly

managed to press the Klingon warrior to his

limits. "I advised Captain Sisko that

to commemorate the Day of Honor so soon after the

invasion of Cardassia might be unwise."

"I don't think it's the

Cardassians who are the problem," Kira said

soberly. "No," Dax agreed. "The problem is

that the Day of Honor is supposed to celebrate a

time when Humans and Klingons united against a common

enemy, even while they were fighting each other. And

now, when we're facing a common enemy greater than

any we've encountered before--"

"My people," Odo

interjected, with the bitter resignation that always soured

his voice when he spoke those words.

"--the Klingons have endangered the entire Alpha

Quadrant by dividing it rather than uniting it.

It makes the Day of Honor--" She broke off

again, this time slanting Worf a wary look. However,

the Klingon tactical oficer finished the thought for her

with the ruthless lack of self-pity Kira found so

characteristic of his race. "--a mockery of what it is

supposed to represent." His dark eyes slitted

down to angry lines of frustration. "Which is why I

cannot even challenge those who spit upon my honor with

their signs and their curses!" Kira winced at the

snarling tone of repressed fury, and wondered if,

all along, this holographic combat hadn't just been

Dax's Trill-clever way to give Worf's

bottled rage a safe place to erupt. The fact

that this possibility had just occurred to her now, she

thought wryly, was a testimony to her own naivete

about the conflict brewing between the Klingons and the

Federation. Kira hadn't known any Humans

until after the Cardassian Occupation ended,

didn't even really know what a Klingon was except

for having heard their name and practices invoked in

Cardassian threats. When she'd first been forced

to work with Humans in the rebuilding years after the

Occupation, she'd found them incomprehensibly

diplomatic, in-furiatingly even-tempered, and

maddeningly dense. The first Klingons she

encountered--staunch allies of the Federation for what had

seemed, at the time, an eternity--had struck her as

being even less understandable, despite their refreshingly

straightforward

lack of Human manners. They'd comprised

different facets of her indoctrination into galactic

culture. And, after four years' immersion on board

Deep Space Nine, she'd learned

to appreciate--even like-- Humans, if still not

completely understand them. The Klingons, however, still

completely eluded her. They were a hard people, in many

ways more complicated than the simplicity of their

behavior suggested. Their separation from the Federation and

all its friendship meant had seemed irrational

to Kira She saw their sudden, aggressive

expansion into every border star system that couldn't drive

them off as being no more forgivable than anything the

Cardassians had ever done. In the months that

followed, she heard the Humans around her speak in

ways she'd never expected. Of populations

battered to extinction, starbases brutalized,

grandparents or uncles or even older siblings

tortured to death by an enemy too different, too

barbaric to ever trust or understand. They'd sounded like they

were talking about demonic creatures of such

supernatural evil that they threatened the very existence

of the universe. Instead, they were talking about the

Klingons. That was how Kira found out about the world before

the Khitomer Accords. Venerable Human

politeness had prevented the Federation from lingering over

the fact that they'd been mortal enemies with the

Klingons for generations longer than they'd ever been

friends. They'd graciously granted the Klingons their

cultural differences, learned not to take offense at

the aggressiveness Klingons tended to fling around them like

spittle, 10 prided themselves on their respect for

Klingon history and tradition. In return, the

Klingons endeavored to be less obvious in their

disdain for Federation bureaucracy, and stopped bullying

Starfleet officers. Apparently, everyone had thought

this great progress at the time. But from Kira's

point of view it had seemed to be progress

built more on tolerance than respect, and doomed

to fail because of that. For a comparatively short period

of time, it had looked like the Klingons and the Federation

needed each other--two vast giants coming to grips

with the fact that even the greatest behemoth needed someone

to guard its farthest edges. Maybe if their peace had

lasted longer they would have eased into a more lasting

symbiosis. As it was, their fledgling

romance hadn't lasted past the first cultural spat.

Borders slammed, families remembered all the

atrocities and fears passed down from beloved

grandfolk and historical texts, and the comfortable

shackles of hatred slipped back into place, as

though no one had ever loosened them. "It's not you."

She hadn't really meant to say anything. if there was

one thing she'd come to understand about Worf since he

joined the crew, it was that he was proud, and intensely

private. But the words popped out as though tumbling

directly off her thoughts. She knew when he

turned his frown on her that she'd trapped herself

in!completing her observation, whether Worf would

appreciate it or not. "The people here--they're not even

seeing you. They're seeing political battles that

are keeping them from getting letters to their loved ones, or

spare parts for

the atmospheric propagators." She lifted

one shoulder in a somewhat apologetic shrug, even

though she wasn't sure what she herself had

to apologize for. "Don't take it personally."

Worf differences, learned not to take offense at the

aggressiveness Klingons tended to fling around them like

spittle, 10 prided themselves on their respect for

Klingon history and tradition. In

return, the Klingons endeavored to be less

obvious in their disdain for Federation bureaucracy, and

stopped bullying Starfleet officers. Apparently,

everyone had thought this great progress at the time. But

from Kira's point of view it had seemed to be

progress built more on tolerance than respect,

and doomed to fail because of that. For a comparatively

short period of time, it had looked like the Klingons

and the Federation needed each other--two vast giants

coming to grips with the fact that even the greatest behemoth

needed someone to guard its farthest edges. Maybe if

their peace had lasted longer they would have eased into a more

lasting symbiosis. As it was, their fledgling

romance hadn't lasted past the first cultural spat.

Borders slammed, families remembered all the

atrocities and fears passed down from beloved

grandfolk and historical texts, and the comfortable

shackles of hatred slipped back into place, as

though no one had ever loosened them. "It's not you."

She hadn't really meant to say anything. if there was

one thing she'd come to understand about Worf since he

joined the crew, it was that he was proud, and intensely

private. But the words popped out as though tumbling

directly off her thoughts. She knew when he

turned his frown on her that she'd trapped

herself in!completing her observation, whether Worf would

appreciate it or not. "The people here--they're not even

seeing you. They're seeing political battles that

are keeping them from getting letters to their loved ones, or

spare parts for

the atmospheric propagators." She lifted

one shoulder in a somewhat apologetic shrug, even

though she wasn't sure what she herself had

to apologize for. "Don't take it personally."

Worf gave her a sharp frown, as if her words had

translated into a threat rather than the friendly advice

she'd intended. More proof that Kira still didn't

understand Klingons. "Hatred is always personal,"

he told her bleakly. "It is only the face of

your enemy that changes." There didn't seem to be

anything she could say in response to that; Kira was

glad when her comm badge chirped and gave her an

excuse to look away. "Sisko to Kira." She

fumbled with latches on her armor with one hand as she

answered, anticipating. "Kira here."

"Major--" Sisko's deep voice was hard

to

read, colored over by the busy sounds of Ops in

his background. "I believe you're with Commander Dax

and the Constable." Kira glanced reflexively

at the officers surrounding her. "And Commander

Wo rf," she said, rolling carefully to her knees.

Then, in response to the tension in his tone, "Is there

a problem?"

"Why don't we discuss that here in

Ops?" The captain had an unnerving way of

sounding his most calm when things were approaching their most

perilous. "Right now, we're facing either a

delicate rescue operation or a full-scale

Klingon war. I thought I'd collect a few

second opinions before I decide."

Benjamin Sisko could still remember precisely

what he'd felt three months ago, in the moment

he'd heard about the breaking of the Khitomer

Accords. A single icy spike of disbelief, then

an explosion of frustrated anger at the success

of the Dominion's divide-and-conquer tactics.

Despite all the later emotions that had knitted

themselves into the tangled tapestry of his feelings toward

the Klingons--betrayal, annoyance, even

unexpected sympathy for Worf's impossible

position in Starfleet--the sharp memory of that

initial reaction had never faded. Great moments in

history did that to the people who lived through them--

crystallized a single day's events inside

the shifting smoke of memory the way a supernova

hammered a permanent singularity through the fabric of

space and time. Sisko sometimes wondered if those

shock-carved memories weren't the truest imprint

of history, more real and indelible than any

datachip's video record. Unfortunately, not

enough time had passed since that day for his deep-seated

rage to be relegated entirely to memory. The

embers of it still smoldered, banked beneath the

accumulated worries and stress of the hundred

intervening days. And the disrupted emergency

transmission he had just watched flicker across the

main screen of Ops hadn't done a thing to quench it.

The turbolift platform hissed into sight, rising

far too slowly, as it always seemed to do in tense

situations like these. When it finally arrived, what

looked like a medieval Klingon melee poured out

into Ops, making one of the junior officers gasp and

another stifle a laugh. Sisko lifted an

eyebrow as he recognized

the senior officers who made up the core of his

tactical analysis team beneath the sweat and jangle

of lacquered armor. Kira shot him a rueful

glance of apology, while Worfjust looked

stoic. Dax went to her science console as

if reporting for duty in ancient Klingon fighting

garb were something she'd done a dozen times before. Knowing

Curzon, that might even be true. "We got a

report in from the Victoria Adams already?" she

asked, reading the signature frequency of the

transmission on her display before Sisko could even

open his mouth to brief them. "But they can't have had time

to gather much data on the cometary event. They were

only scheduled to arrive in the KDZ-E25From

system a few hours ago."

"It's

not a scientific report." Sisko crossed

Ops to join her in front of the panel, frowning at

the digital gibberish that scrolled across her screen.

"Unfortunately, right now that's all I'm sure

of. The message was so badly disrupted that all we

could make out was that Captain Marsters encountered

Klingons and an emergency situation had developed.

Can you sift through the interference and clean the signal

up, old man?" "I can try." Dax handed him her

bat'leth and pulled back her unruly mane of

hair, then focused on her data display with the kind

of instant intensity that only a joined Trill

symbiont and host could summon. Sisko took a

step back and reined his simmering impatience

in with an effort. Badgering Dax for results right

now would only slow her down. Instead, he wrapped

his fingers tight around the 14

traditional Klingon weapon he'd been given,

feeling the deep warmth of the metal blade radiating

through its sweaty leather grip. Whatever archaic

Klingon ritual his senior officers had been

re-creating down in Quark's holo-suite, their

battle gear hadn't just been donned for

authenticity. Only a long and hard-fought battle

could have soaked so much of Dax's body heat into her

weapon. Sisko raised an eyebrow at Kira,

and saw his first officer drop her hand almost guiltily

from the sore shoulder she'd been massaging. "Could you

reconstruct the Victoria Adams's

coordinates at the time of transmission?" the

major asked, clearly determined to ward off any

questions about her fitness for duty. "If they veered off

course toward one of the areas the Klingons have claimed

as theirs--" Sisko shook his head. "The signal

tracked right back to the E25From system. That's

nowhere near any of the disputed territory." Worf

frowned over his armored shoulder. "Still, there has been

a significant increase in Klingon incursions

throughout the entire demilitarized zone in the

last few months," he reminded Sisko. "If you

recall my warnings on the possible dangers of this

scientific observation mission--" Sisko winced.

It had been easy at the time the Victoria

Adams had departed to dismiss Worfs warnings as

Klingon paranoia. No incidents, other than a

few distant sightings of warships and smugglers, had

disturbed the uneasy peace of that part of the

Klingon-Cardassian demilitarized zone. And there

had been nothing special about the KDZ-E25From

system--aside from its unfortunate ownership of a

disintegrating giant comet--to attract the attention of

either the Cardassian or Klingon empires.

"Limited landmass, no significant

resources, and utterly impassable vegetation" was

how the ancient Starfleet survey charts had

summarized the system's single Class-M

planet. It had seemed a safe enough place for a

small shipload of planetary scientists and

retired Starfleet officers to go to view a cosmic

fireworks show. "This isn't deliberate

signal-jamming," Dax said abruptly, saving

Sisko from having to answer his tactical officer.

"The interference cuts randomly across the entire

subspace spectrum."

"Couldn't the noise be coming from all

those comet impacts the Victoria Adams went

to observe?" O'Brien inquired. Dax shook her

head. "Not unless the comet fragments in that shower are

made of dilithium instead of ice. The

electromagnetic noise generated by bolide

impacts on a Class-M planet might very

well contaminate the radio and visible bands, but it

shouldn't touch subspace frequencies. Not even

to mask--" Her voice broke off without warning, and

her fingers began to fly across the computer panel.

Sisko shot a frowning glance at her data output

screen, but saw nothing he could recognize as a

significant change in the random display of

noise. "What is it, old man?" Dax looked

up, her eyes crackling with sudden realization. "This

interference we're seeing--it's not a generated

signal at all, natural or artificial. It

never

adds to any wavelength of the Victoria

Adams's sub-space signal, it only

decreases it to a greater or lesser extent. In the

places where the transmission's nearly wiped out,

there's no static in its place. Just nothing."

"What does that mean?" Kira asked.

"It means the Victoria Adams's subspace

signal has been filtered through a massive

depolarizing field." A rumble too fierce for a

groan and too wordless for a curse emerged from somewhere

deep in Worf's chest. Sisko shot a questioning

look at him, and saw the bared-teeth grimace that

said his chief tactical officer didn't like what he

was going to have to say. "There is only one way

to create that kind of field in open space."

Worf's voice deepened in a bleak mixture of

vindication and regret. "Massive Klingon

disruptor fire."

"Yes," Dax agreed. "The Victoria

Adams must have been under Klingon attack when she

sent this message." For a moment, the only sound in

Ops was the beep and hum of computers handling the

routine business of the space station. The machines were the

only ones oblivious to the military and political

crisis crashing down upon them. Then Sisko

grunted and allowed three months of stifled anger

to escape in a cascade of orders. "Dax, get

me the best resolution you can on that transmission.

I want to know as much as we can about what happened out

there." He swung to face the rest of his crew.

"Major Kira, put in a high-priority

call to Starfleet and brief Admiral Nechayev

about the attack on the Victoria Adams. Commander

Worf, I want an updated report from

Intelligence on all known and suspected Klingon

forces in the demilitarized zone. O'Brien, get

the Defiant ready for immediate departure and notify

Dr. Bashir to assemble an emergency medical

team."

"Yes, sir. "The cadet-sharp response from the

whole crew told Sisko he was probably

letting a little too much of his temper spill into his

voice. He took a deep breath, but it didn't

do much to ease his tension. Bad enough that the Klingons had

decided to spit in the face of the Federation by attacking

a civilian ship. But to have that ship be the defenseless

research vessel Victoria Adams with its load

of vacationing Starfleet retirees--it made

Sisko's gut burn with a rage fierce enough to scorch

any remnant of hesitation from his mind. The

familiar, gravelly sound of a throat being cleared

brought his narrowed gaze around to the one senior officer

to whom he had issued no orders. Odo gazed

back with a quizzical expression in his not-quite-human

eyes, his eyebrows arched in wordless inquiry. "Is

there a problem, Constable?"

"I don't know. You certainly seem to think so."

Kira snorted without looking up from her communications

panel. "The Klingons just declared war on the

Federation, Odo. You don't call that a problem?"

"Did they?" the Changeling asked dryly. "It's

not as if the Victoria Adams was in Federation

space when she was attacked. Maquis and

Cardassian ships have been getting fired on and

chased out of the Klingon demilitarized zone for the past

three months. We knew there was a risk the same

thing would happen to the Victoria Adams. Wasn't

that why Commander Wor f recommended our science

officer not join the expedition?"

"True," Sisko agreed. "But that doesn't

mean the Federation can turn a blind eye to the destruction

of an unarmed research vessel on a scientific

mission."

"Or that we can ignore a Federation vessel's

distress call, and leave its survivors to die, just

because we are afraid of Klingon retaliation,"

Worf added grimly. "Ah." Odo tilted his

head, an ironic glitter in his pale eyes.

"No doubt you all learned that lesson at the

Academy, from that Starfleet training exercise--the

Kobayashi Maru." Sisko exchanged

frowning looks with his chief tactical officer. "This

is not a no-win situation, Constable," he said at

last. "If we can get to the E25From system in

time to rescue the crew of the Victoria Adams,

we might be able to avert a diplomatic crisis"

"---over

a misunderstanding that could be resolved just as easily

by negotiation between the Federation and the Klingon

Empire," Odo pointed out, with the same unerring

logic that made him such an impartial arbiter of

merchant disputes on the Promenade. "The loss

of a small research vessel--"

"--might be smoothed over," Sisko agreed.

"But the loss of the last two surviving officers from the

long-range explorer Glimmerglass, the only

captain to take her ship successfully through the

Chienozen passage, the science officer who

established contact

with the first inhabited neutron star, the diplomatic

liaison who--" Odo held up a hand, giving

Sisko the stiff nod he used to acknowledge his

mistakes. "You're saying we have to interfere because the

Starfleet veterans who went along for the comet show were

unusually important--" "No, they weren't,"

Sisko said bluntly. "Except for one

or two, they were just the normal run of Starfleet

retirees. What I'm saying, Constable, is that the

loss of anyone who served in uniform as long and as

honorably as those people did is going to poison

Starfleet's relations with the Klingons for years to come.

No matter what the Federation diplomats may say

or do."

"Enhanced transmission coming up on

the main screen." Dax broke into the argument without

ceremony. "I managed to extrapolate an

additional seventy percent of the signal from the

fragments that got through. Be prepared--we're still going

to lose the end." The main screen of Ops blanked,

then exploded' into a signal so brilliantly

over-enhanced that Sisko had to squint to make out the

burned-in shadows of the Victoria Adams's

bridge. Dax frowned and adjusted some control on

her screen, muting the stilled image down to more

bearable levels of brightness. The colors of deck and

uniforms and bridge stations remained artificially

monotone, however, a computer's extrapolation rather

than the varied tints and shadings of real life. A

single rawboned figure occupied the captain's

chair. Dax's enhancements hadn't changed the tense

set of his lantern jaw or erased his

scowl, but they had brought into finer focus the sweat that

beaded his face. He looked out across time and space

with intent eyes, making Sisko once again feel that

the man was making eye contact directly with him.

"This is Captain Charles Marsters of the Federation

research vessel Victoria Adams," said a

clipped, precise voice. Sisko barely

recognized it as the same static-fuzzed drawl

he'd managed to decipher only a few words from

fifteen minutes ago. "Request urgent

assistance from Deep Space Nine. We've

encountered an armed Klingon blockade around the

planet KDZ-E25F." A blast rocked the

science vessel, staggering the captain and momentarily

knocking the image back to glittering white

nothingness. "Blockade?" Kira demanded

incredulously. Sisko grunted. "I thought that was

what he said before, but I couldn't be sure. This was where

we lost the audio feed." Dax adjusted something on

her panel, and the Victoria Adams's bridge

did a slow fade back into existence on the screen.

"--attacked us for not leaving fast enough," Marsters

said, still sounding calm despite the crackle of

on-board fire beneath his words. "Hull and warp core

integrity are holding, but we lost all

life support systems in the initial attack.

We're running on limited emergency backup

now. All passengers and nonessential crew

have--" The transmission shattered into nothingness again,

presumably due to another close-range

disruptor blast. This time, when the visual feed

coalesced back into existence, it looked more ghostly

and snowed over than before.

And although Marsters's lips were still moving, no sound

emerged. Sisko cursed in fierce disappointment.

"That's the best you can do, old man? We still don't

know exactly what happened."

"The subtractive effects of

the disruptor fire were worst in the audio portion

of the signal. I can't extrapolate something from

nothing, Benjamin."

"They evacuated the

rest of the crew and passengers in a large

planetary sampling shuttle," Odo said

unexpectedly. "The Victoria Adams is going

to cover their departure by leading the Klingons as far out

of the system as possible." Sisko swung around,

startled. His chief security officer stared so

intently at the screen that he didn't even blink

at the final, blinding explosion of white

nothingness. It was at times like this that Sisko

remembered Odo's humanoid shape was merely

assumed, and not hampered by any biological

limitations. "Constable, how do you know that?"

"I can

read lips." Odo's pale eyes swung over

to him, irony washing through them like a chill of frost

across a windowpane. "It's a valuable skill to have

when you're watching Ferengi make illegal bargains

across a noisy bar." Sisko lifted an eyebrow,

but it was with respect, not skepticism. His years of

experience had taught him that the Constable never claimed

to have skills he didn't possess. "Did

Captain Marsters say where the shuttle went after it

left the ship?"

"Down to the

planet," Odo said promptly. "I believe

he said something about deliberately taking a

depowered entry path, to make it look to Klingon

sensors as though they were a falling comet fragment."

Dax frowned. "But in a thick Class-M

atmosphere like that, a steep entry path could

destabilize the shuttle and force them into a crash

landin It seems like such a risk--"

"Not as

much of a risk as staying on the Victoria

Adams, with the Klingons in pursuit and life

support failing." Sisko felt his jaw tighten

around the next question he had to ask. "Was that final

explosion the ship blowing up, Dax?" She

surprised him with a shake of her head. "I don't

think so. The signal strength was actually fading

compared to the disruptor depolarization toward the end.

I'd say the Victoria Adam, was actually

pulling away from her pursuers."

"I just hope they pulled all the

Klingons away with them," O'Brien said. "That

would leave the system clear for us to go in."

"Yes." Sisko turned to pin Kira with a

frowning glance. "Any reply yet from Starfleet

Command?" Kira grimaced. "Regional

headquarters acknowledged our hail, but says

Admiral Nechayev is in a crucial meeting with

representatives from the Vorta. She left

orders that all emergency situations be handled under the

protocol of sector commander recognizance."

Sisko's breath hissed through his teeth, but it was in

satisfaction, not annoyance. "That means that, for now,

the decision is up to us. Recommendations?"

"Go," said O'Brien curtly. "Go,"

Dax agreed.

"Go now!" growled Worf. That was the Starfleet

side of his mixed command crew, reacting exactly as

Sisko had expected. Their majority vote

essentially settled the question, but Sisko forced himself

to look over at his Bajoran second-in-command,

trying to make sure he wasn't allowing service

loyalties to overrule his better judgment. He

got back a look of crackling impatience. "Of

course, we have to go," Kira said. "Give the

Klingons a research ship in the demilitarized

zone, and they'll take a starship in the Alpha

Quadrant. If we don't stop them now, we'll

just have to deal with them later."

"Constable, do you agree?" Odo snorted.

"I think we're going to start exactly the war

we're trying to prevent. But since I appear to be

the only one who feels that way, I'll save my

energy for saying

"I told you so" a few days from now."

"I appreciate

that," Sisko said dryly. "In the meantime, could

you assemble a skeleton security squad for the

Defiant? I want to take minimal crew, so

we'll have enough room to evacuate all

survivors." He glanced over at Dax. "Do you

remember how many passengers and crew the

Victoria Adams carried?" "Fifteen

scientists, ten ship's crew, and twelve

passengers," Worf said before the science officer could

reply. "If they were on emergency life

support, the captain couldn't have takene system

clear for us to go in." "Yes." Sisko turned

to pin Kira with a frowning glance. "Any reply yet

from Starfleet Command?" Kira grimaced.

"Regional headquarters acknowledged our hail, but

says Admiral Nechayev is in a crucial

meeting with representatives from the Vorta. She

left orders that all emergency situations be handled

under the protocol of sector commander

recognizance." Sisko's breath hissed through his

teeth, but it was in satisfaction, not annoyance. "That

means that, for now, the decision is up to us.

Recommendations?"

"Go," said O'Brien curtly. "Go," Dax

agreed.

"Go now!" growled Worf. That was the Starfleet

side of his mixed command crew, reacting exactly as

Sisko had expected. Their majority vote

essentially settled the question, but Sisko forced

himself to look over at his Bajoran

second-in-command, trying to make sure he

wasn't allowing service loyalties to overrule his

better judgment. He got back a look of

crackling impatience. "Of course, we have to go,"

Kira said. "Give the Klingons a research ship

in the demi litarized zone, and they'll take a

starship in the Alpha Quadrant. If we don't

stop them now, we'll just have to deal with them later."

"Constable, do you agree?" Odo snorted.

"I think we're going to start exactly the war

we're trying to prevent. But since I appear to be

the only one who feels that way, I'll save my

energy for saying

"I told you so" a few days from now."

"I appreciate

that," Sisko said dryly. "In the meantime, could

you assemble a skeleton security squad for the

Defiant? I want to take minimal crew, so

we'll have enough room to evacuate all survivors."

He glanced over at Dax. "Do you remember how

many passengers and crew the Victoria Adams

carried?" "Fifteen scientists, ten ship's

crew, and twelve passengers," Worf said before the

science officer could reply. "If they were on

emergency life support, the captain couldn't have

taken more than four of the crew with him when he tried

leading the Klingons away," O'Brien added. "Then

we'll need to have room to evacuate at least

thirty-two." Sisko scrubbed a hand across his

face, mentally counting out the crew he could spare.

"Dr. Bashir will still have to take a full medical

team, which means we cut down ship's crew

to fifteen. Agreed?" Dax gave him a somber

look. "I don't think we need to be that

conservative. You're assuming all the survivors

we rescue are going to be healthy. If the medical

bay is filled, we'll end up with five empty

bunks that could have held ship's crew."

"All right, twenty. Staff all sectors

accordingly and assemble in docking bay five in fifteen

minutes." Sisko vaulted out of the central hub of

Ops and headed for the turbolift that would take him

to his ship, reining in his impatience just long enough to let

his five senior officers board the lift with him.

"Promenade," he told the computer, confident he

would find Bashir and his team already waiting to join them.

"O'Brien, will you brief the doctor on what

injuries he can expect to find in the crash

survivors?" His chief engineer shot him a

startled look across the crowded turbolift platform.

"Why me?" Sisko lifted an eyebrow at him.

"I assumed you'd know what kind of space-drive

the planetary sampling shuttle had, so Dr.

Bashir could know whether he needs to deal with radiation

damage or plasma burns." O'Brien

grunted. "Crash damage is probably the least

of the survivors' worries, Captain." "What do

you mean?"

"Well, nobody told that giant comet out there

to stop disintegrating just because the Klingons fired on our

research vessel. The survivors from the

Victoria Adams are taking shelter on a

planet where fire is

raining out of the sky and the days are as dark as the

nights--"

"And

tsunami shock waves are coming in from any

impacts that happen to hit the ocean." Dax sounded

more wi/l than worried. "It must be like--"

"Hell," Worf suggested. "Not hell,

sylshessc" Kira saw their questioning looks and shook

her head until her earring tinkled, obviously at

a loss to translate the Bajoran word

into English. "It's an old legend from

Tal Province, about a future time when the sky

burns and the earth explodes and the waters of the sea

crash together--"

"Armageddon," Sisko said

softly. "That's the Human version of the

prophesy." Odo grunted. "And in your version,

is Armageddon the utter end of everything?"

"No," Sisko

said grimly. "It's the beginning of war."

CHAPTER 2

AT FIRST GLANCE, it didn't look much

different from any other planetary system. A

saffron yellow star spit out a normal amount of

heat, light, and solar wind; three gas giants

circled in far-flung orbits. But where the inner

rocky planets should have spun in the star's golden

glow, an ominous parabola of dust and ice enshrouded

half the system. Dax's long-range scanners

detected two small, airless planets orbiting

outside that haze, one swung out beyond its perigee

and the other caught between the curving arms of debris.

Magnification of their sun-baked surfaces

revealed a crazy quilt of craters and impact

scars from past orbital swings through the comet track.

Dax stored the surface images for later

analysis, then ran a quick check on the

extrapolated orbital parameters for both inner and

outer planets. As she'd

suspected, all of them showed perturbations from a

third, rocky inner planet, whose orbital

diameter should have put it midway between the other two.

It must be somewhere inside the remnants of the

disintegrated giant comet. She turned her attention

to the difficult task of filtering interference out of the

sensor beams as they refracted through the debris.

"Major Kira, any sign of Klingon ship

activity?" Sisko watched the main screen with a

frown. Devoid of sensor enhancements, all that could

be seen of their destination was the central twinkle of its

star and a frosty trail of debris. That crescent of

scattered gauze didn't look anywhere near as

threatening in real life as it did on her sensor

scans. Unfortunately, Dax knew her

computer-enhanced version was closer to the truth. The

Bajoran shook her head without looking away from her

output screens. "I've jacked up the

sensitivity of our ion detectors as high as they

can go, but they're showing no trace of any cloaked

vessels in the vicinity." She pursed her lips as

though considering, then added, "No sign of

uncloaked activity, either." Meaning the Victoria

Adams. "That's a good sign. It means Captain

Marsters got away and took the Klingons with him."

Sisko frowned at the Defiant's main

viewscreen. "I'd like to know what's on the

surface of those planets. There's a chance the

planetary shuttle might have landed there. Dax, can you

enhance the display?"

"I can, but sensor scans show no sign of a

recent landing on either planet." She transferred

her two stored images up to the main screen,

assigning them to their proper locations around

Armageddon's golden sun. "Computer analysis

of their orbital parameters, however, indicates

there's a third inner system planet inside the

cometary debris cloud. I haven't been able

to image it yet." She glanced across at Sisko,

reading his impatience in his drumming fingers. "But it's

the most likely location for the shuttle to land, since

it's the planet the Victoria Adams went

to study. Unfortunately, it's also the one that's being

most heavily bombarded by cometary impacts--at

least once every two or three days." O'Brien

frowned over his shoulder at her. "Just what is going

on in this system, Commander? Why did the

Victoria Adams come here to begin with?"

"Because it's one of the few planetary systems in this

quadrant whose Oort cloud agglomerated into a

single body, too fluffy to be a planet but much

too big to be a comet. It got kicked into an

inner-system orbit fifteen thousand years or so

ago when another star grazed past this one. The

stresses of that new orbit kept tearing it apart,

scattering debris along its path, until it finally

disintegrated completely on its last solar swing, just

last year. What you're seeing are its final

remains." She shot a vexed look across the

bridge at Worf. "It's a perfect re-creation

of the kind of event that we think caused a mass

extinction on the Trill home-world. Observing it

would have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,

even for a Trill."

"Had you gone with

the Victoria Adams, you might have found it the

last-in-a-lifetime opportunity," the Klingon

tactical officer reminded her. He looked up from

the pilot's console he'd taken over while Dax

concentrated on her sensor scans. "Can you

obtain a rough fix on the planet's position using

the curvature of its gravity well? I

need to plot a course."

"And I'd like a visual image," Sisko

added. "I can fix the third planet's position, but

I can't image it through all the interference. This is the

best I can do." Dax sent the blotched gray

image she had captured to the main viewscreen. It

looked even worse when it was magnified, so

vaguely outlined that it could have been the veiled halo

of a comet as easily as a planet. "Chief, can you

give me any more resolution on my sensor beam?"

O'Brien tapped a scan into his control panel

and grunted. "I can give you a sixty-five

percent increase in beam confinement, Commander, but only

for a few minutes. On your mark." Dax carefully

delimited her scanning range to the exact

coordinates of the planet to avoid wasting sensor

power. "Mark." The image on the screen slowly

swam into focus as the tightened beam scanned across

it. Its blurred outer edge became the hazy

smudge of an atmospheric layer, as

oxide-browned as a heavily industrialized

planet's. But its nightside showed no signs of

urban lights, and the isolated sprawl of island

archipelagos dotting its blue-green oceans

seemed too small to support any kind of

machine-based civilization. There was only one larger

landmass in view, haft-hidden by the planet's

terminus. Dax thought she saw the hint of a massive

impact crater in that shadowed twilight edge, but the

resolution faded back to fuzzy gray before she could

confirm it. She hoped it had been a comet that made

that scar.

"Sorry, Commander," O'Brien sighed. "That was

all the power I could jack in without burning out the

sensor array."

"That's all right. I can't

confirm impact structures, but that brown color

means there's been a lot of dust and ash kicked into the

stratosphere recently. We'll have to get a lot

closer before I can tell you if there's a crash

site." Worf glanced back across his shoulder at

Sisko. "Shall I lay in an orbit, Captain?"

Sisko rubbed his chin. "Can we navigate safely

through all that cometary debris?"

"Our shields should take care of the smaller

debris," Kira pointed out. "And we can program

short-range sensors to alert us to any imminent

collisions with larger fragments." Worf frowned at

her. "Gi ven the political situation, I strongly

recommend that we remain under cloak at

all times on this mission. If we were to fire at an

oncoming comet fragment, we would give away our

presence to the Klingons."

"Assuming there are any Klingons here to give it

away to," Kira retorted. "I'm still getting

no trace of ion trails anywhere in the system."

"But that doesn't mean we can assume they aren't

here. The Klingons might have already come back from chasing

the Victoria Adams, and dropped into a

Lagrangian orbit around the planet to conserve

power." Sisko drummed his fingers on the arm of his

command chair, looking intensely thoughtful.

"O'Brien, can we recalibrate our shields

to an angle that will deflect any oncoming debris

fragments without disturbing our cloaking effect?"

"We can try." The chief engineer hunched over his

panel as he ran the calculations. "But we're not

going to have full power as long as we're under cloak.

It looks like we should be able to deflect about ninety

percent of the debris we encounter without any

significant change in vector. The rest will hit

at such a direct angle that we'll feel the

impact, even through shields. It shouldn't cause

any real damage, but if someone was watching us

closely, they might notice the fragment

bouncing off." He glanced up unhappily. "It

also means I can't promise we'll maintain

shield integrity under a disruptor hit."

"That's a chance we'll

have to take." Sisko turned back to the pilot's

console. "Mr. Worf, as soon as the shields are

recalibrated, take us into a circumpolar orbit

at minimum impulse power. That should give us an

opportunity to scan the whole planet without having

our signals or our ion trail picked up

by anyone who might be watching."

"Aye-aye, sir." Sisko swung his command

chair back in the other direction. "Major

Kira, as we come in, I want you to concentrate

your ion detection scans on the planet's

Lagrange points. If there are Klingon

vessels present, we may be able to pick up some

minor leakage from their warp cores. Dax, I

want full scans of the planet's surface,

calibrated for humanoid life signs, as soon

as we hit orbit."

"It may take longer than usual with all that

atmospheric pollution," she warned. It didn't

seem worth adding that the racial diversity of

Victoria adams's crew would also add

unique convolutions to the readings. "Understood."

Sisko stood and paced down to the front of the

Defiant's bridge, as if physical

proximity to the fuzzy planet displayed there would show

him something he hadn't already seen. "I wonder why the

Klingons would risk attacking a civilian ship

all the way out here? What's in this system that they

don't want us interfering with?"

"Besides generic Klingon aggression?" Kira

asked. "You don't think that's reason enough for them

to sweep their borders clean?" Sisko made an

impatient gesture with his hands. "Maybe. But I

can't see any tactical advantage to this. Something

about it just doesn't feel right." "That is because it is

not honorable to wage war on a weakened enemy,"

Worf said stiffly. "And all Klingons know that

scientists are the weakest warriors of all."

"Oh, are they?" O'Brien raised his eyebrows

toward Dax, and she rewarded him with an amused

smile. "That's a prejudice that's cost them a

lot of battles in the past," she assured him. The

bridge doors hissed apart before Worf could do more

than glower at her joke. Bashir and Odo came

through them together, the doctor glancing curiously up

at the viewscreen while the security

officer went to join Kira at the weapons station.

"Any sign of Klingons yet?" Odo asked.

"Not an ion's worth." Kira yielded the panel

to him, stretching as she turned to look up at the main

screen. "What about survivors?" Bashir

followed Kira's gaze, drifting almost

unconsciously toward Dax. The

gauzy veil of debris had resolved into hazy

streaks and glowing gas streamers while they approached

it, a tangled braid of cometary fragments trapped

and melting in the heat of Armageddon's saffron

sun. "We're still working on that," Dax assured the

doctor. "Worf's taking us in for a closer

look." A worried frown settled over his lean

face, but Sisko silenced any protest he might

have voiced with a single raised finger and a calmly

spoken, "Patience, doctor." He nodded down

at Dax in a clear gesture of redirection.

"Dax, how can this much ice exist in such close

proximity to the star?"

"It can't," Dax admitted. "That's why

the whole debris belt looks so fuzzy with

vapor. But there's enough debris from the ice giant

to last for quite a while."

"So comet

fragments will continue to bombard the inner planets

for years." Kira shook her head, looking somber.

"I wouldn't wish that fate on any inhabited world."

"At least they don't have to suffer it all year

round," O'Brien pointed out. "They have an

"impact season" while they're inside the

debris field, but then they can recover during the time

they spend outside it."

"That doesn't seem to have helped the two

smallest planets in the system," Dax said.

"They've suffered such intense bombardment in the past

that they don't have an atmosphere or hydrosphere

left. It's all been blasted into space."

"Let's hope the

escape shuttle actually made it to the

Class-M, then." Bashir folded his arms as

though to hide the nervous clenching and unclenching of his

hands. "What was it called again?

KPZ-E20-SOMETHING?"

"KDZ-E25From," Odo

said precisely. "Not exactly a memorable

designation."

"No," Dax agreed.

"In my science notes, I've started calling

it Armageddon."

"You would,"

Bashir said, more in resignation than disgust. "Why

not sylshessa?" Kira demanded. "Because there already is

a planet called Sylshessa. It's a

Tellarite colony near Vulcan." Dax threw

a cautious look at the captain, knowing her odd

Trill sense of humor didn't always sit well

with him at times of tension. The glint in his dark eyes

encouraged her to add, "At least Armageddon is a

better name than Splat. That's what the crew of the

Victoria Adams was calling the Class-M

planet."

"Let's hope neither

of those names becomes a self-fulfilling

prophecy, old man," Sisko retorted. "For

us or for the survivors."

"We are entering the cometary

debris field now, Captain." The deep tone

of Worf's voice never varied under pressure, but

Dax knew him well enough now to read the strain in his

carefully clipped syllables. She felt the

Defiant lurch a little as a large ice fragment

impacted its newly angled shields. "Our

shields appear to be deflecting most of the debris,

but we are losing some directional control

to friction."

"Lower speed to warp one and

compensate for course deviations." Sisko

resumed his command seat, staring up at the viewscreen

with the fierce attention he usually reserved for

opponents in battle. The

image of the Class-M planet slowly

resolved as they drew closer, condensing back into the

dust-stained, blue-green sphere they'd caught a

glimpse of before. The terminator had crept

slightly westward, exposing more of the long, oblong

gouge scarring the one large landmass. "Is that the

crash site?" Bashir asked. "No." The

increased magnification of her science panel showed

Dax the scatter of smaller craters trailing

away from the main one, each surrounded by a starburst of

exploded rock and soil. "It's a cometary strike

--looks like a large bolide shattered just before

impact. There's almost no erosion on the debris

fans. I'm guessing it happened within the last few

weeks."

"We are entering

circumpolar orbit now, Captain."

"Very good. Dax, begin scanning for

life-signs."

"Yes, sir." She punched in extra

sensitivity filters for humanoid vital signs,

then paused to read the flickering output from her

sensors. "I'm showing a standard oxygen-nitrogen

atmosphere, with traces of methane, carbon

dioxide, and argon."

"Also methyl iodide at a level

indicative of marine-dominant

photosynthesis." Bashir leaned over her shoulder

to point at the telltale spike on her

spectro-graphic display. "The ocean's still full

of life, despite getting blasted by rocks from outer

space. Are you picking up any life-signs on

land?"

"Yes. A

surprising amount, actually." Dax read through her

scanner output again, to make sure she hadn't

misinterpreted the unusual readings it gave her.

"According to this, the main continent is pretty much

desolate in the interior, but swarming with native

life around its edges. Thick vegetative cover

of

some kind is showing up on IR, both on the

coast and on the islands. I suspect there are

several types of higher vertebrates still

inhabiting the surface, many of them exhibiting herding

or pack behavior." Sisko waved a hand,

impatient as always with the dry basics of biology and

planetology. "What about the escape shuttle?

Any sign of it?"

"Not so

far." The Defiant cruised slowly over the

planet's unglaciated polar region, then down

across its other hemisphere. Here, night was falling

across a second enormous blue-green sea, this one

even more thickly laced with surf-fringed tropical

islands. "Life-sign scans are still showing only

native vertebrates and marine life--no,

wait... We've got a hit!"

"The crew?" Kira demanded. "I don't

know..." Dax flicked her eyes back and forth across

her panel, trying to absorb every reading at once.

"I'm showing about twenty life-signs on one of the

small islands in that central archipelago. They're

masked by some kind of phased energy field--I think

it might be the shield generator from the shuttle."

"What

about the shuttle itself?." Sisko asked. Dax

shook her head at her display. "I'm not picking

up any kind of equipment or power-source

reading at all. Just the field interference and the--" A

flutter in the readings distract ed her. "Julian,

come take a look at this." She leaned to one side

to let the doctor bend over her shoulder. "Is this a

problem with my scanning filters, or are almost all

of these life-forms injured?" Bashir tapped a

query on her computer, cursing softly at the

response he saw. "There's nothing wrong

with your filters. These are humanoid readings, and

at least thirteen of them are injured, seven

critically. Three of them are nearly dead." A

grim silence fell over the Defiant while

everyone stared at Armageddon's unrevealing

freckled oceans as if they could somehow answer all

their qedges. Thick vegetative cover of

some kind is showing up on IR, both on the

coast and on the islands. I suspect there are

several types of higher vertebrates still inhabiting

the surface, many of them exhibiting herding or pack

behavior." Sisko waved a hand, impatient as

always with the dry basics of biology and

planetology. "What about the escape shuttle?

Any sign of it?"

"Not so

far." The Defiant cruised slowly

over the planet's unglaciated polar region,

then down across its other hemisphere. Here, night was

falling across a second enormous blue-green

sea, this one even more thickly laced with surf-fringed

tropical islands. "Life-sign scans are still

showing only native vertebrates and marine life--

no, wait... We've got a hit!"

"The crew?" Kira demanded. "I don't

know..." Dax flicked her eyes back and forth across

her panel, trying to absorb every reading at once.

"I'm showing about twenty life-signs on one of the

small islands in that central archipelago. They're

masked by some kind of phased energy field--I think

it might be the shield generator from the shuttle."

"What

about the shuttle itself?." Sisko asked. Dax

shook her head at her display. "I'm not picking

up any kind of equipment or power-source reading

at all. Just the field interference and the--" A

flutter in the readings distracted her. "Julian,

come take a look at this." She leaned to one side

to let the doctor bend over her shoulder. "Is this a

problem with my scanning filters, or are almost all

of these life-forms injured?" Bashir tapped a

query on her computer, cursing softly at the

response he saw. "There's nothing wrong

with your filters. These are humanoid readings, and

at least thirteen of them are injured, seven

critically. Three of them are nearly dead." A

grim silence fell over the Defiant while

everyone stared at Armageddon's unrevealing

freckled oceans as if they could somehow answer all

their questions. "That must be the Victoria Adams's

crew," O'Brien said at last, voicing the

conclusion that none of them wanted to reach. "But there were

thirty-two passengers and crew on the Victoria

Adams," Kira protested. "You're saying half

of them are dead or dying?"

"I'm saying

they're in urgent need of medical help, whoever

they are." Bashir glanced across at O'Brien.

"Chief, can we transport them straight to the

medical bay?"

"Not as long as that shield generator is going. And

I doubt they're going to drop it--they're

probably using it to try and ward off comet

impacts."

"Very well." Bashir straightened and turned

toward Sisko, suddenly wearing the innate dignity

that his strong sense of medical ethics could

bestow on him despite his youth and joie de vivre.

"Captain, request permission to take an

emergency medical team to the planet's surface."

"Granted," Sisko said without hesitation.

"Major Kira, go with him. And Dax"--he fixed

her with a not-entirely humorous glower--"this had

better be the end of your complaining about not going on the

Victoria Adams, old man." Dax winced, but

the acidic comment couldn't entirely quench the

scientific enthusiasm bubbling through her. Worf

glanced over his shoulder, furrowed brow drawn

into tighter lines than usual. "Captain, I am

the obvious choice to accompany Dr. Bashir as

protection. As chief tactical officer--"

"I'm going to need you here in

case the Klingons show up and challenge us,"

Sisko returned. "Don't worry, Mr.

Worf. I'm sure Dax and the major can take

care of themselves." The Klingon grunted and threw

Dax the severely reproving look she was never quite

sure how to interpret. "Under normal

circumstances, I would agree," he said grimly.

"How reassuring." Dax set her sensors on

autoscan until her replacement could arrive on

the bridge. Kira was already accompanying

Bashir to the turbolift, leaving Odo in sole

command of her console. As she turned to follow them,

Dax paused only long enough to blow Worf a

facetious kiss. It made him wince and look

away, just as she'd expected. "You be careful,

too. You're going to be getting bombarded by as many

comet fragments as I am." The chief tactical

officer growled up at the view-screen, although Dax

didn't think it was the view that had enraged him.

"Somehow," he said between his teeth, "I think the comets

are going to be the least of our problems."

Bashir's first impression of Armageddon was that it

stank like a butchery. The stench slapped over them with a

force completely overriding any images of

dust-shrouded sun, crystal blue ocean, or

pearlescent sand. Bashir brought his arm up to shield

his nose and mouth. He

knew it was pointless, a blind make-work instinct,

even as his left hand scrambled to open his medical

kit and dig out the tube of olfacan by feel.

He'd carried olfacan in every medkit, and stored some

in half a dozen sick bay drawers, ever since his

first medical school autopsy. Logic understood that

illness could be ugly. Sight could be trained to see the

person beyond radiation burns, to understand the

pathology of trauma and disease. But smell spoke

directly to those most primitive places of one's

brain; it simply refused to be reasoned with. Still,

after half a lifetime of downplaying his own assets

for the sake of peer acceptance, it had taken him

by surprise to discover a weakness he hadn't

suspected. Later, he would try to convince himself that

it was his supernaturally acute sense of smell that

had betrayed him. At the time, his stomach gave in

to a fight-or-flight reflex that no amount of

intellectual resistance could override, and he'd

fled the autopsy theatre in an effort to minimize his

humiliation. It was afterward that an older resident

introduced him to the joys of an anesthetized

olfactory nerve--a fingerful of colorless ointment

across the upper lip, and even Bashir's keen sense

of smell faded into blissful nonexistence for a good

two to three hours. Years later, he still greeted

the cessation of smell with a kind of guilty relief;

the animal mind at work again, convincing him that no one

with a half-million credits worth of biological

enhancements should need something so trivial as protection

from unpleasant odors. But the guilt didn't stop

him from using it. Warded against his baser instincts, he

extended the tube to his physician's

assistant, Heiser. The young

lieutenant took a grateful smear with one

index finger and passed half along to nurse

Ledonne. Bashir twisted to include Dax and

Kira in his offer, explaining, "It's a nasal

anesthetic. It'll help block out the smell."

Kira gave a wry little snort. It was one of many

sounds Bashir had learned to associate with the

major's private conviction that he had the intestinal

fortitude of a sand flea. "No, thanks. I

learned to ignore worse than this a long time ago."

Of course. There was little Starfleet could expose her

to that was as bad as Cardassian prison camps.

Bashir wondered if she'd ever considered that the

ability to tolerate something unpleasant didn't

obligate you to do so. Or maybe that was more of what

she labeled sand flea thinking, and not even worth

mentioning. He slipped the olfacan back into its

protective sleeve and worked loose his tricorder

instead. "My God..." He may not have been able

to smell, but his eyes still stung; he felt like he was

going to sneeze. "How many crew members did

Victoria Adams carry?"

"Smells like

thousands." Heiser scrubbed at his sparse

blond mustache as though trying to help the olfacan

work. "Should we do a reconnoiter?"

"No." Dax

glanced up from her own singing tricorder in

response to Bashir's startled glance. "Those aren't

dead bodies," she clarified, dipping a nod

toward her scan results. "Not humanoid dead

bodies, at least. If the Victoria adams

crashed here, she did it too recently to allow for this

level of putrefaction. Besides, we aren't close

enough to the source of that

shield generator to be smelling any corpses from

that site." She snapped shut her tricorder and

repositioned it on her belt, pinching at her nose

again despite the olfacan. "Let's get going before

this smell makes me vomit." But the stench got

worse instead of better as they made their way down

the long curve of beach. Smooth, white sand--so

fine that it packed almost as solidly as soil where the

waves shushed up to dampen it--made a level

shelf more than thirty meters wide for as far as

Bashir could see. To his right, tropical blue

water undulated like a platter of softened glass,

bending itself into mountains, valleys, and gently stroking

tongues of wave. On his left, what

looked to be a wall of woven sticks and vines

rose to more than twice his height, its seaward side

decorated by draperies of mummified kelp and

tangles of long-dead detritus. Some sort of

weather wall to protect against ocean storms?

Erected by--who? The crash survivors? The

natives? No, there was too much greenery beyond it, just

as high and twisted as the wall fronting the shore, and

stretching as far to that direction as the ocean stretched in

the other. And Armageddon's volatile local

environment made the possibility of sentient

natives more than just highly unlikely. It was some

sort of natural vegetative feature, then--the

planet's attemp t to defend itself against itself. At

first, Bashir thought perhaps the rotten odor originated

with this littered hedge. He and his assistants were

sufficiently shielded by the olfacan to no longer

notice what smells surrounded them. But Trills

apparently didn't respond as well to the

anesthetic, and Kira had refused it from the outset.

Bashir rather easily tracked the strength of the stench through

the simple expedient of watching the women's faces.

Dax squinted to protect her eyes from the fumes,

and Kira's already wrinkled nose wrinkled even

further in disgust. It wasn't until they

stepped in front of a gaping rent in the wall of

brush that whatever they'd been smelling must have rolled

out in force Dax grunted a little sound of disgust, and

Kira jerked away from the opening as though she'd been

slapped. Even Bashir imagined he detected a

pungent belch of stench too strong for the olfacan

to fully counter. Still, it was the tacky blaze of

clotted blood darkening broken foliage that jolted

his heart up into his throat. It was already too old

and rotten to tell if it had come from any familiar

species. Touching a hand to his tricorder as though

it were a talisman, he stepped gingerly into the

crushed-down path and forced himself to keep a measured

pace until he reached the end. "Julian!" The

passage widened abruptly into a lidless natural

amphitheater, its sides as smashed and shattered as the

corridor. He meant to call back a

reassurance to Dax. Instead, he looked up at the

mountain of gore in front of him and coughed

abruptly into one hand. There was a horrible moment in

which he thought he'd be sick even with his immunity to the

fetor, but he managed to swallow his stomach under

control just as Kira trotted up from behind. He heard

something that might have been a stunted sneeze, then the

major croaked softly, "Maybe I'll

take a noseful of that stuff after all." In all his

life, Bashir could not remember imagining something so

wretchedly horrific. Carcasses--each

easily three tons even with skins and half their

internal organs removed--lay piled within a veil

of buzzing flies and decomposition gases. They'd

been stacked higher than Bashir's own head, but the

combined weight of the upper layers had crushed the

bodies on the bottom until only shattered bone

ends and the occasional rotting hock jutted up from the

bloody mud into which they'd been pressed. Some

clinically detached segment of his brain noted the

internal structures that said they were probably

mammalian, and the flat, cylindrical teeth which

suggested they were herbivorous. Some more emotional part

of him struggled to pin a number on how many bodies

one needed to build a pile of carnage five

meters high and perhaps another twenty meters long.

He felt the warmth of someone close on his left

elbow several moments before noticing a science

tricorder's distinctive warble. "In case it

matters," Dax said quietly, "I was right--these

carcasses are definitely too old to have anything

to do with the Victoria Adams." It was no consolation

at all, and. Bashir bitterly envied

Dax the lifetimes of experience that let her face

something like this without losing composure. "If not the

survivors, then what?" Relief throbbed in his

stomach when he finally dragged his eyes from the

slaughter. "The comet impacts?" Dax shook her

head. "Even the nearest comet damage is too

recent."

"What else could have killed so many animals at

one time?" "Spears."

He didn't want to look at Kira--he'd have

to glimpse the mutilated pile as he turned, and

everything inside him wanted to avoid that more than he was

comfortable admitting. Dax rescued him by tossing a

silent question at the major over Bashir's shoulder,

then looking where Kira apparently gestured. "And

somebody field-dressed them, too," the major

went on. "I don't think they normally come with

exposed organs and no hair." Dax nodded

slowly, thoughtfully. "You're right..."

"Do you think

it was natives?" Bashir asked. Partly because the

question of intelligent life brought to mind his original

thoughts about the weather wall, and partly because he didn't

want to seem so completely weak-kneed that he

wasn't even following their conversation. Dax

glanced at him with a scholarly frown, as though

prepared to debate all aspects of that question in the

interests of science. Then something in his face softened

her expression. Bashir suspected it was his waxen

pallor, or perhaps the first hint of nauseated tears in

his eyes. Whatever the cause, she slipped her arm

across his shoulders and turned him back toward the beach

with its virginal stretch of bright white sand. "I

don't know enough about the planet yet to even take a

guess," she said, voice smooth with equal parts

consideration and sympathy. "We'll ask the

survivors about it when we find them."

By the time they reached the survivors' settlement,

natives were the last thing on Bashir's mind.

"Cholegh'a' chlm ghobdu'wit' Dax's voice

--raised and rough strained to bark the words with what

Bashir assumed was either authority or challenge--

fell flat amongst wreckage no longer tall enough

to encourage echoes. From inside the shimmer of force

field, swarthy, chiseled faces lifted, turned

to them with no particular malice or interest. They'd

apparently finished salvaging hours ago; by now,

adult and sub-adult males clustered with adult

females in the meager shade of the weather wall, well

away from the shield's humming margins yet

well protected by its umbrella. Their bodies were

lowered into deep squats, their hands balanced on their

knees as though prepared to spring into action despite

the weariness etched into all their faces. Klingon

faces. Bruised and weary and creased with despair,

but still undeniably Klingon Mingon sapiens.

Bashir counted less than ten scattered about the

tumbles of debris, standing or sitting. Judging from the

bright blossoms of Klingon blood splashed across every

survivor's clothing, there were at least that many again

wounded or already dead. He saw no sign of

Humans. "Nglis Hol Sajatlh'a'?" It

hadn't been a big village even before its

devastation. A row of strongly woven huts,

opposing ends open to the air, seemed to have been

extruded directly from the weather wall. They were little

more than a scatter of twisted sticks now. The

shield's irridescent bubble covered only the

centermost sections of the camp, leaving exposed

blankets and racks that had no doubt filled the

tiny hovels only a few days before. The blurry

touch of Armageddon's sun warmed

hoops of braided vine and their circles of

stretched hide, while hammocks of dessicating

organ meat slowly dried beside what looked

like racks of some frothy yellow gland. It was an

impressive collection of foodstuffs, obviously

the bounty from the hunting "scraps" the landing party had

already found. This was certainly no temporary

castaways' camp, and couldn't have been erected in the

short time since Victoria a dams had reported

Klingons in the area. Dax halted with her toes just

brushing the terminal margin of the shield. "Devwi'ra

"Iv?" Tiny sparks

skittered in the sand between her boots. Bashir

wasn't sure if it was the Trill's words that

ignited the flutter of interest among the silent

Klingons, or the distinctly Klingon bravura of

her approach. Whichever it was, something passed from

Klingon to Klingon on a chain of turning heads

until one of them rose to his feet from amidst a

ring of other adult males. Bashir thought he

recognized the arrogance of a Klingon commander

despite the warrior's limping stride. He

didn't even stand as tall as Dax, but the broadness

of his chest and limbs betrayed a strength easily a

match for the entire landing party. Shoulder-length hair,

still curling and black with Klingon vigor, went well

with an equally vigorous beard but not so well with the

bruise-deep shadows of exhaustion beneath his

eyes. Despite that, and despite the swollen

foot that he favored when he walked, Bashir saw

none of the gauntness of long-term starvation in the

warrior. The absence of traditional Klingon armor

only accentuated the ripple and bunch of his

muscles, the

smoothly filled planes of his broad face.

It was clear why his crew felt secure enough to waste

so much of the animals they'd hunted and killed, rather

than utilizing the whole. Bashir made an effort

to push that last bitter thought away. For all he

knew, the meat was inedible and the skin and glands were the

only parts the Klingons could use. Besides, the entire

planet would probably be blasted clear of life in

just another few days. It hardly seemed reasonable

to hold ecological grudges. The bandy-legged

commander looked as though he might split the seams of

his dusty civilian tunic when he halted just

opposite the shield from Dax and flexed his

shoulders. "I never believed I would someday be

happy to stand unarmed among Starfleet officers."

His Standard was clear, though heavily accented. If

he'd meant his greeting as a joke, it didn't

sound like a happy one. Thumping one fist against his

chest, he rumbled, "I am Gordek, of the

House of Gordek." Dax lifted one eyebrow in

what Bashir took to be surprise, but said nothing

to expound on her gesture. "Lieutenant Commander

Dax, from space station Deep Space Nine."

She apparently felt no need to reciprocate

Gordek's theatrical physicality. Bashir was

just as glad. "This is Major Kira. And Dr.

Bashir, Lieutenant Heiser, and Ensign

Le-Donne." The Klingon's onyx-chip gaze

leapt instantly to Bashir, but skidded away again before

allowing interpretation. "You are here because of the Federation

shuttle that crashed yesterday, out in the tuq'rnor."

His deep voice made it a statement rather than a

question. "Yes." Dax never broke her own gaze

away from Gordek's. "Did you fi nd any

survivors at the wreckage site?" "None,"

said the Klingon curtly. Bashir's rush of bitter

disappointment was sliced off unexpectedly

by Gordek's next words. "We found no bodies,

either. We had to hike several miles of tuq'mor

to reach that ship. Whoever rode in it left long before

we got there." Kira frowned at him. "Are you the

ones who made it crash?" A throaty rumble of

what might have been Klingon threat or Klingon

laughter. Bashir always found it hard to tell

the difference. "Yes, of course. We attacked a

Federation ship and destroyed it, then immediately beamed

ourselves down and built this village, threw away

all our technology, armed ourselves with spears, and then

waited for a comet to destroy us." The points of his

teeth gnashed when he grinned, but Bashir still

wasn't sure if he was amused or angered. "Is

that what you wanted to hear?"

"What she wants to

hear," Dax said clearly, "is whether you are the

reason that the ship was attacked, not whether you are the

ones who attacked it."

"Ah."

Gordek's gaze swung back to the Trill, his

oddly angry amusement fading to a more recognizable

emotion. Surprise. "You know what we are, then?"

"I think so," she said calmly. "Will you tell me,

or are you going to make me guess?"

"Guess." The Klingon spat over one shoulder

as casually as a Human might gesture with one hand.

Dax said something long and intricate in Klingon,

something that made a muscle jerk in Gordek's

cheek, as though something had stung him. "Vra" he

said reluctantly, and the Trill nodded as though that

single word had brought enlightenment. She took

a step back from the glittering shield, looking for

all the world as if she expected it to drop now.

Bashir and Kira followed her back to where Heiser

and Ledonne had waited for them, wearing matching

looks of concern and bafflement. "What did you just

say?" Bashir demanded. "Are they going to let us in

to treat the wounded, or are they sending us away?"

"They'll

let us in." Dax sounded more somber than

usual. "They may not be happy about it, but they

don't have anywhere else to turn for help. They're

ada'ven--political exiles from the Klingon E

ship. Whoever rode in it left long before we got

there." Kira frowned at him. "Are you the ones who

made it crash?" A throaty rumble of what might

have been Klingon threat or Klingon laughter.

Bashir always found it hard to tell the difference.

"Yes, of course. We attacked a Federation ship

and destroyed it, then immediately beamed ourselves down and

built this village, threw away all our

technology, armed ourselves with spears, and then waited

for a comet to destroy us." The points of his teeth

gnashed when he grinned, but Bashir still wasn't

sure if he was amused or angered. "Is that what

you wanted to hear?"

"What she wants to hear," Dax said

clearly, "is whether you are the reason that the ship

was attacked, not whether you are the ones who attacked

it."

"Ah." Gordek's gaze swung

back to the Trill, his oddly angry amusement

fading to a more recognizable emotion. Surprise.

"You know what we are, then?"

"I think

so," she said calmly. "Will you tell me, or are

you going to make me guess?"

"Guess." The Klingon spat over one shoulder

as casually as a Human might gesture with one hand.

Dax said something long and intricate in Klingon,

something that made a muscle jerk in Gordek's

cheek, as though something had stung him. "Vra" he

said reluctantly, and the Trill nodded as though that

single word had brought enlightenment. She took a step

back from the glittering shield, looking for all the world

as if she expected it to drop now. Bashir and

Kira followed her back to where Heiser and

Ledonne had waited for them, wearing matching looks

of concern and bafflement. "What did you just say?"

Bashir demanded. "Are they going to let us in to treat

the wounded, or are they sending us away?"

"They'll

let us in." Dax sounded more somber than

usual. "They may not be happy about it, but they

don't have anywhere else to turn for help. They're

ada'ven--political exiles from the Klingon

Empire, sent here to live out the rest of their lives

in isolation from their society." There was a long

silence, filled only with the muffled groans and

stirrings from the wounded. Gordek was limping over to the

central firepit, beyond which Bashir could just see the

actual shield generator. Its glittering

duranium husk was roughly cobbled to an equally

out-of-place portable power supply. Both looked

like standard Federation issue to Bashir. "How did you

know?" Kira asked at last, while Gordek

fiddled with the field controls. The wall of force that

separated them from the Klingons began to waver and

ripple, as if an unfelt wind was blowing through it.

Dax sighed again. "I didn't recognize the

House of Gordek as any traditional Klingon

clan. Starfleet intelligence has noticed that for the

past year any small Klingon house that comes

inffconflict with Chancellor Gowron quickly disappears

from view. I think Gowron's decided to put his

past experience with the House of Mogh to use

by duplicating it on other politically inconvenient

families. All I did was name those houses,

until I came to one that made him blink."

"Vrag," Kira repeated. "Yes.

Unfortunately, of all the exiled houses, that's

the one I know the least about. They could have been thrown out

for being pacifists or for wanting to start an outright

attack on the Federation. We should The shield

rippled one last time, then vanished. Bashir

promptly crossed into the center of the Kling-on

encampment, drawn by the universal sounds of suffering

that he could now hear clearly. "careful," Dax

finished behind him, ruefully. He could hear her and

Kira following along, but his attention now was locked

to his medical tricorder and the flickering vital

signs it guided him toward. The little alcove

trampled into the brush wall was more just a place

to dump the wounded than any real attempt at an

infirmary. Bashir covered the last meter with a few

quick strides and knelt beside the first in what seemed an

impossibly long line of patients.

Heiser had already headed for the other end of the line,

tricorder and medkit in hand, while Ledonne

positioned herself near the middle. Bashir would

suddenly have given an arm for another dozen

medics, all of them only half as good as these two.

The female now laid out before him was still young by Klingon

standards. Her brow ridges were fully carved, but

twelfth-year incisors only showed perhaps five or

six years' worth of wear. A depressed skull

fracture had been bandaged with only a single strip

of fine-weave cloth, and not even so much as a

half-cured hide had been spread over her to keep

out the chill. Of course not--Klingons should be strong

enough not to require coddling. Even when they were more than

half dead. Grey matter in the tangle of her

hair, and no reflexive response from either

pupil. Bashir closed her eyes with a gentleness

he suspected she wouldn't appreciate, and moved

on to the next body in line. Gordek circled behind

the doctor, limping to a stop just outside Bashir's

range of vision. Bashir could feel the Klingon's

stare on him as he compiled tricorder readings on the

patient, a burning itch on the back of his skull.

"What happened here?" he asked, more to tell the

Klingon he knew he was being watched than because he

really needed to know. That gained him only another

streak of spittle, this one landing distressingly close

to his tricorder. "What do you think? You must have

seen the sky as you came here."

"Comet impact," Kira

translated. It sounded as if she spoke through

clenched teeth, and Bashir was oddly glad to know he

wasn't the only one reacting badly to Gordek's

blend of anger, aggression, and reserve. "When did

it happen?" "Three days ago, just at sunset.

We saw a streak across the sky, but we have seen many

such streaks in the last few months. This one was

different. This light came down further into the sky,

then exploded around us, like a photon torpedo."

"Lower atmosphere burst," Dax said.

"The most damaging kind of impact." Gordek

grunted. "Several of my house were killed outright.

Others have died since. But there are still enough of us left

to survive." The statement was almost defiant, as if

he thought they might have some reason to question. "After we

found the wrecked Federation ship, I knew we would be

fine. The shield will keep us safe from any more

explosions in the sky." Straightening carefully,

Bashir took a moment to sterilize his hands before he

moved on to the next critical patient. Dax

watched in silence while he knitted ribs and

sutured the punctures they had made in the skin.

Klingon physiology was remarkable in many

respects, not the least of which was their ability

to stoically endure damage that would have killed a

human or a Trill within hours. It was Kira who

resumed the interrogation. "When you were stripping the

wreckage, did you see any evidence of where the

crash survivors might have gone?" Gordek spat

again, this time in her direction. It was apparently an

all-purpose expression of scorn rather than a

personal comment. "Following tracks in the tuq'mor

is a fool's errand. There was a trail close to

where your ship crashed, one that I followed

northwest from here. It continues another half-day's

walk to the main settlement."

"Main

settlement?" Dax inquired, while Bashir

reached the last patient in his third of the row. He had

added an open pelvic fracture and lateral

pneumotho-rax to his list of casualties, and

reached to tip first Heiser's, then Ledonne's

tricorder screen to a readable angle so he could

add their lists to his before Gordek answered the

Trill's question. "It is where the epetai keeps those

loyal to her, a warren of burrows in the middle of the

tuq'mor." He spat again, more fiercely this time and

in a direction away from them. "All underground, the

better to rot and die where they stand!" Bashir

exchanged enlightened glances with Dax. "No wonder

you got so few humanoid readings on this planet,"

he said softly. She dipped a single thoughtful nod

in agreement. Kira pushed in front of Gordek,

either oblivious to or determined to ignore his growing

belligerence. "Could the survivors from the crashed

Federation vessel be at this main settlement?"

"They might." Gordek

stepped back, his broad face emotionless but his

onyx-cold eyes skipping from one to another of them

with a look of unexpected calculation. "If I

tell you how to find it," he said, "will you send down

phasers and a permanent power generator for our new

shield?"

"You want to stay here?"

Bashir tried not to sound too appalled by this

loyalty to any planet that had doled out such ruthless

punishment for crimes that were none of its affair. He

couldn't help noticing Dax's matching frown of

surprise. "You've got at least six critical

injuries so far, plus another four who might not

die but who need bones regrown or limbs

regenerated." He glanced behind him, and was only

half-startled to find both Dax and Gordek so

close that he bumped them with his shoulder when

he turned. "I'd like to beam them up to the ship right

away."

"You have doctors on

your ship who can tend to Klingon warriors?"

Bashir made himself scowl back into Gordek's

accusing glower. "No. But we have stasis

facilities that can keep them alive until we

get to a better equipped sick bay." Although he

found it hard to believe this Klingon cared overmuch how

many of his people did or didn't survive the journey.

Thinking of the first young woman with her brain in her

hair, he offered more gently, "We also have a

morgue, if you'dr" Gordek waved off the

suggestion with a whutf of disgust. "The dead are dead."

He looked as though the sight of his dead people annoyed

him. "Leave them."

"There will be more dead,"

Dax warned him. "Even with the shield, you can't

survive a direct comet strike." The Klingon

leader's glossy black head lifted in a faint

echo of Worf's towering pride in his heritage.

"I prefer to die under a killing sky than to accept

mercy from my enemy. You may transport my people

to your ship for treatment," he added to Bashir

arroganfly. "But you will beam them down again

along with the power generator I have asked for. Is it a

bargain?"

"Yes." Kira overrode Dax's more

tentative response with the crisp confidence of someone

who'd been a field commander for longer than she'd

been an adult. "You have my word of honor as a

Bajoran." The thick muscle of Gordek's

cheek spasmed again, but whatever had startled him

apparently wasn't worth commenting on. "I accept

that," he said promptly. "And you have the word of honor

of one who will be epetai someday."

CHAPTER 3

kira FELT THE difference in this new Klingon

encampment even before the transporter had fully

released her. Sunlight--harder and hotter, with no

ocean breeze to mitigate its strength--cut

patchwork patterns through shadow too woven and deep

to come from trees; peaty-smelling mud leveled the

ground with flaccid puddles; and the volume and snarl

of the voices crowding about her reminded her abruptly

that, even on the best of days, Federation personnel

had no reason to expect a warm reception from

Klingons. Unfortunately, it was a little late

to voice that kind of pithy observation. Solidity

raced through her limbs with an almost electric

shock. With it came the full return of sight and

sound and movement. She had barely jerked away from the

first Klingon who lunged to grab her arm when Dax's

shout took over where the transporter had left off.

"Kira, don't! Julian, don't fight them?

Not that they had much choice--one thick, stone-hard arm

snaked around Kira's middle while someone else

seized her wrist and pinioned it between two hands. She

couldn't even see Bashir, only hear his thin hiss

of pain somewhere behind her. Her teeth gnashed so hard

they hurt, but she didn't use her free hand

to gouge anybody's eyeballs. She thought Dax

should at least appreciate the heroic proportions of

that restraint, considering how incomprehensible Kira

found the whole concept of passivity. She estimated

more than four dozen Klingons just within the sweep of her

eyes, most of them drifting in menacing orbit around

her, Dax, and Bashir. Another unseen handful

held them all immobile. Bandages, rough

splints, even a pair of crutches lashed together from

twists of local wood. Nothing in sight like the

massive injuries they'd left Ledonne and

Heiser to tend at Gordek's camp, but also

hardly representative of this encampment's entire

populace. Although surrounded by the same

tangled brush growth that had bordered the shoreline,

this campsite was many times larger and obviously more

permanent. What might have been trees, except that

they'd been planted upside down, punctuated the

huge clearing, dotting the edges and even marching a

way into the brush. Klingons sat comfortably atop

archirig roots-that-should-have-been branches, emerged

curiously from the cavernous hollows dug under the

enormous barrel trunks, looked up from where they

etched intricate symbols into the still-growing wood

to expand on patterns already months--if not years--

old. A tall, white-haired female climbed with

unhurried dignity from the depths of the largest

tree-cavern. Her head plates braided into an

elegant arch from the bridge of her nose to the peak of

her skull, and hair that must have been longer than she

stood tall had been coiled and woven into a regal

coronet. Kira didn't think she'd ever seen a

Klingon so obviously old, or so impressive.

Striding through the corridor that suddenly appeared before

her in the press of bodies, the matriarch halted

less than an arm's length from the prisoners to fold

her hands in front of her polished bronze belt.

She regarded them with aristocratic reproach.

"Tlhlngan Hol Dajatlh'a'?"

"Yes." Dax spoke up without waiting for either of the

others to ask for a translation. "But my friends speak

only Standard." The Klingon measured Kira and

Bashir together with a single flick of her eyes, the

way a hunter casts off unnecessary tissue with a single

sweep of his knife. "There is no honor in

exploiting your enemy's confusion." She managed

to convey a wealth of disdain, even in her graciousness.

"I am Rekan, epetai of the House of Vrag."

Not the House of Gordek, Kira noticed, and was

not too surprised by that. Rekan epetai Vrag

listened to Dax's introductions with an almost

Vulcan stoicism, only tipping her head once

with interest when the lieutenant commander said her own name.

"You are a Trill."

Even Kira could tell that wasn't a question. Dax

nodded. "Were you once called by the host-name

Curzon?" The Trill seemed to weigh her answer

carefully, studying Rekan's face as though looking

for her words in that queenly sculpting of planes and

angles. "I'm sorry," she said at last.

"I'm sure Curzon would have remembered such a

striking female." If Rekan found the remark as

condescendingly masculine as Kira did, she

didn't show it. "I never had the honor of

meeting Curzon Dax while he was among us. But

he was said to be an extraordinary man." She

delivered a short, glancing blow to whoever stood behind

Kira, the way a ghar-wolf cuffs at its

offspring. Just that quickly, the grip on Kira's

throat and arm was released. Rekan epetai Vrag

stepped back, but only far enough to prevent physical

contact between herself and the outsiders, not far enough to suggest a

retreat. "You have come to retrieve your soldier."

Kira glanced sideways at Dax, and was

relieved to see the Trill more concerned with the health of

her tricorder than her own rough handling. Bashir

rubbed gingerly at one biceps, but seemed none the

worse for wear. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the

odd nature of that statement. Kira frowned and

turned back toward the older Klingon female.

"Soldier?"

"From your crashed ship," Rekan said calmly.

"We have been waiting for you to come retrieve him."

"There's only one?" Bashir's

dismay roughened his normally smooth voice. "There

should have been over thirty, most of them scientists and

older people." The Klingon leader shook her

majestically silvered head. "We have seen none of

those. We have only one young male Human,

wounded." Her mouth compressed in a smile that showed

none of Gordek's aggressive baring of teeth.

"And all he will tell us is his name, rank, and

identification number. He says he is a

communications officer. We assumed he was from a

downed warship." Kira frowned back at her.

"He's from a Federation research vessel, sent here

to observe the comet fall," she informed the exiled

Klingon leader. "Your people shot it down."

"My people?" The Klingon matriarch lifted

her chin in either interest or amusement, Kira

wasn't sure which. "Look around you. We have no

ability to shoot anyone down."

"But if it wasn't

for you're" Bashir interrupted with the sidelong

scowl that Kira knew meant he'd had enough of

unproductive truculence. "Can we have this discussion

later, please? I'd like to see my patient."

"Ah." Rekan

nodded as if something had been vaguely puzzling

her but was now resolved. "You are a doctor. I

understand now. Follow me." Bashir did so without

pause, leaving Kira hesitating in the center of the

main exile colony. Dax gave her a wordless

nod, but that didn't do much to reassure her.

After all, this was the same Trill who thought coming down

to this comet-battered planet was a

once-in-a-lifetime treat. Still, when Dax swung

past her to catch

up to Rekan's long, purposeful strides, the

barrage of hostile glances Ki ra could feel pouring

out of the myriad hollows and caves was enough to speed her

steps as she followed. Rekan Vrag had threaded

her hands into her sleeves, a gesture that must have

dated from a time when she wore the more elegantly

draped robes of the Klingon military aristocracy.

Somehow, even dressed in drab utilitarian

brown, the gesture did not demean or humble her.

"Enter," she said simply, pausing at the threshold

of one small overhang. Kira's warning instincts

rose to full clamor when she saw the featureless,

dim interior. But when Dax snapped on a

belt-lamp and used it to pick out the single slim

figure huddled against the far wall, Kira was the

next one in after Bashir. At least these Klingons

had spared him the luxury of a blanket. The

survivor stirred when Bashir started his examination,

his hands rising in a move Kira recognized as a

standard defense technique taught at Starfleet

Academy. She caught his hands back

easily from Bashir's oblivious throat, feeling

them shake with frustrated weakness between her own. "It's

all right," she said, hearing her voice drop to the

crooning hush she'd used to soothe younger children in the

camps during attacks. "You're safe."

"Safe., The young man licked dry lips,

barely able to say the words past them. He peered up

at her puzzledly, then his gaze moved to Bashir's

familiar uniform and eased. "Starfleet...?"

"That's right." It didn't seem worth pointing out that

Kira was with the Bajoran military, not Starfleet.

She suspected that just not being Klingon would have been enough

to reassure him. "I'm Major Kira. This is

Lieutenant Commander Dax and Dr. Bashir."

"I'm... my

name's Alex, Alex Boughamer. How did you

know I was here?" Kira tossed a warning glance at

Dax, inclining her head toward the tall and rail-thin

shadow that still slanted across the mouth of this deep

overhang. Dax nodded back at her soundlessly,

then answered. "We picked up the Victoria

Adams's distress call at Deep Space

Nine yesterday." She paused, carefully eying the

pale face below them. "Alex, did anyone else

survive?" Boughamer startled Kira with a

breathless chuckle. "Hell, all of us survived,

Lieutenant. In fact, I'm the worst off.

Captain Marsters packed us three deep in the

sampling shuttlewyou should have heard the geologists

bitch about that--and one of the..." His drifting words

sliced off abruptly, as if he'd just

recollected that he was still among Klingons. "...

um, an older guy among the passengers who used

to be a pilot or something--he piloted us down.

He was amazing. We took some bumps in the comet

field--that's when the spectrometer fell on me--

but otherwise we made it down pretty much in one

piece. I couldn't believe it." His blue eyes

sharpened to a more crystalline alertness as Bashir's

bone regenera-tor skated across his ribs. "What

about the Vicky. Major? You said you got a

distress call. Did she make it out okay?"

"We don't

know," Dax said, in the gentle voice she

usually reserved for hopeless causes and untimely

deaths. "So far, there's no word." Boughamer's

face seemed to crumple in on itself for a moment, then

firmed up again. "That's okay. We knew--

Captain Marsters knew she might not make it.

He just wanted to make sure we got

away, and we did. He'd be glad about that." They

were silent for a moment, listening to the hum of the

deep-tissue regenerator that Bashir scanned

across Boughamer's abdomen. The daylight slanting

in from outside seemed too bright, now that Kira's

eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She restrained an

urge to ask Rekan to step closer to the mouth of the

overhang to provide more shade. Dax touched

Boughamer's shoulder to get back his drifting

attention. "You said all n shadow that still slanted

across the mouth of this deep overhang. Dax nodded

back at her soundlessly, then answered. "We

picked up the Victoria Adams's distress

call at Deep Space Nine yesterday." She

paused, carefully eying the pale face below them.

"Alex, did anyone else survive?"

Boughamer startled Kira with a breathless chuckle.

"Hell, all of us survived, Lieutenant. In

fact, I'm the worst off. Captain Marsters

packed us three deep in the sampling shuttlewyou

should have heard the geologists bitch about that--and one

of the..." His drifting words sliced off abruptly,

as if he'd just recollected that he was still among

Klingons. "... um, an older guy among the

passengers who used to be a pilot or

something--he piloted us down. He was amazing. We

took some bumps in the comet field--that's when the

spectrometer fell on me--but otherwise we

made it down pretty much in one piece. I

couldn't believe it." His blue eyes sharpened to a more

crystalline alertness as Bashir's bone

regenera-tor skated across his ribs. "What about the

Vicky. Major? You said you got a distress

call. Did she make it out okay?"

"We don't know," Dax said,

in the gentle voice she

usually reserved for hopeless causes and untimely

deaths. "So far, there's no word." Boughamer's

face seemed to crumple in on itself for a moment, then

firmed up again. "That's okay. We knew--

Captain Marsters knew she might not make it.

He just wanted to make sure we got away, and we

did. He'd be glad about that." They were silent for a

moment, listening to the hum of the deep-tissue

regenerator that Bashir scanned across Boughamer's

abdomen. The daylight slanting in from outside

seemed too bright, now that Kira's eyes had

adjusted to the darkness. She restrained an urge

to ask Rekan to step closer to the mouth of the overhang

to provide more shade. Dax touched

Boughamer's shoulder to get back his drifting

attention. "You said all the other survivors were

alive. Where are they?"

"With the Klingons," he said simply. Kira

glanced out at Rekan's silhouetted figure and

frowned. "Which Klingons? There's no one here but you."

Boughamer shook his head, then groaned and dropped

his head back to the ground. "Not here. They caught us

at the crash site and took us someplace far away.

It was dark... we were in a cave, I think.

Deeper and colder than this--more wind blowing through. But

I don't know WHERE." He started to shake his head

again, but desisted when Bashir laid a gently

restraining hand across his forehead. "They had me

blindfolded part of the time, and I was passed out the other

half. All I remember is waking up and being in

some kind of vehicle--something that lurched a lot,

like a big landhopper or all-terrain crawler.

I was there for what seemed like forever, then I was here.

That's all I know." Kira fell silent again, this

time in sizzling frustration over the lack of clues

she could follow to the missing survivors. She

lifted an eyebrow at Dax to see if the Trill

had any other questions. "Alex," Dax said, "the

Klingons who found you after you crashed--what

did they look like?"

"Was

one of them a heavy guy, long black beard and

hair?" Kira put in. "No." Boughamer's

eyes closed, but his voice sounded so much clearer now

that Kira guessed he was doing it to better

remember. "They were too young to be a ship's crew,

no armor, nobody in charge. And they've lived

there, wherever we were, for a while. I could smell that

rather smoky smell and the food smells and the Klingon

smells."

"Why did they take the rest of

the crew and passengers back to the caves with them?

Why didn't they bring them all here?" Bashir

asked. Boughamer's eyes flashed open, looking

startled and oddly angry. "Didn't I tell you

already?" He cursed when he saw their heads shake.

"I'm sorry, I thought I had--I've been

repeating it over and over in my head until I

wasn't sure what I'd said and what I'd just

thought. It's what they sent me here to tell you, it's

why they sent me. They knew someone would come to look

for us, and this is what they want you to do." He took

a deep breath, then launched himself into a message so

singsong and practiced that its original

Klingon cadences could scarcely be heard anymore.

"You are from Starfleet who listen to this, and you have come

to rescue your people from the comets. But there are people on this

planet that you haven't come to rescue, and to us their

lives are more valuable than these are to you. So we

say to you, we who live on this planet and for this

planet and with this planet, that we will not release these people

of yours from the threat of the comets until you have released

our people from it, too, forever. If you do not, then the comets

will release us all." Boughamer's breath whistled out

of him in near-exhaustion, but his eyes were already

anxiously turning from Kira to Dax to Bashir.

"I really said it that time, didn't I? I didn't

just imagine that I did?"

"You

really said it." It was a good thing at least one of the

Trill's brains could still form words, because judging from the

arrested expression on his face, Bashir had been

thumped as speechless as Kira. "The rest of the

survivors from the Victoria Adams are being

held hostage by a group of Klingons. They'll be

released only when we've managed to protect the

entire planet from the comets. Otherwise--"

"--otherwise they hang on to

the hostages until sylshessa,"

Kira said grimly. "Until Armageddon, when

everybody dies."

It was the mark of a mission going bad, Sisko

thought ruefully, when your first instinct upon being hailed

by your sector commander was to have your communications officer

tell her you'd beamed down with your away team. Had

it only been a few hours

ago that he'd felt utterly confident that he could

swoop into the Armageddon system, elude the

Kling-on blockade, beam up the survivors from the

Victoria Adams, and be back at the station before

Admiral Nechayev had finished conferring with her

Vorta equivalents? Now that he was orbiting high

above this comet-scorched planet, his sensors blinded

by im pact debris, his ship in imminent danger of

detection by a returning Klingon blockade, and his

away team stymied by Klingon ecological

activists--of all the unlikely antagonists!--

he wasn't sure Nechayev was even going

to believe his progress report, much less

endorse his continuing mission. And he could tell from the

surreptitiously sympathetic glances he was

getting from O'Brien and Worf that they shared all of

his doubts. With a resigned sigh, Sisko nodded at

the young ensign who'd taken Dax's place

on the bridge. "Put the admiral through."

"Captain Sisko." Interference from the comet

field fuzzed the high-security channel, making

Nechayev's image waver. As usual, though, the

admiral's polished steel voice cut through the

background hum with ease. "Do you know what's going

on right now?" "We're still trying to locate the

survivors from the Victoria Adams," he said.

"We've gotten proof that most of them are alive,

but--" Nechayev waved his explanation to an

unexpected stop, her carved face tightening with an

emotion too cold to be anger and too tense to be

irritation. "Let me update you on the larger

situation. Twenty minutes ago, the Victoria

Adams--and the Klingon ship she appeared to be

traveling with--were destroyed by a Cardassian

military outpost at KDZ-A17J. The

Cardassians claim it was an act of

self-defense."

"What?"'

The shout resounded so loudly around the Defiant's

bridge that Sisko knew it hadn't just been his

voice raised in unconscious protest. "How could

Captain Marsters attack a Cardassian

outpost? The Victoria Adams wasn't

armed!" Nechayev frowned. "According to the

Cardassians, Marsters came into the system at

high speed and made a suicide run straight at

their outpost. When they destroyed the Victoria

Adams to prevent the impact, a cloaked Klingon

vessel that was shadowing her--or pursuing her--

returned their fire. The ensuing battle took down

two Cardassian warships and half the station's

defense system before the Klingons were destroyed."

Sisko whistled softly. He'd only met

Marsters once, and although he'd been impressed with the

research captain's intelligence and good judgement,

he would never have expected a Vulcan Science

Academy graduate to display such reckless

courage in defense of his passengers and crew.

"He deliberately incited that battle to keep the

Klingons from returning here," he told Necheyev

without hesitation. "He must have known it was the only

way he could stop them." Worflet out a rumble of

Klingon respect. "That was the act of a great

warrior."

"You

know that, and I know that," Nechayev snapped

back. "But all the Cardassians know is that

they've been attacked by what looked like a

joint Federation-Klingon force. It's taking all the

diplomatic

pressure we can muster to keep open war from

breaking out all along the border."

"Look at the bright side," O'Brien offered.

"At least we won't have to worry about the Klingon

blockade for a while. They'll be so busy shoring

up their border patrols--"

"I disagree," Worf interrupted. "If

the Klingons blockading this system were willing

to fire on an unarmed Starfleet vessel and

pursue her into the teeth of a Cardassian outpost,

there is something of immense importance to them in this

system. I do not believe they will abandon it."

Nechayev's image fractured into hissing rainbow

prisms as a chunk of cometary ice rebounded against the

Defiant's angled shields, then reformed into an

ironic frown. "For once, our diplomatic

corps agrees with you, Commander Worf. They tried

to make some subtle inquiries about this

KDZ-E25From planet of yours, but couldn't get

their usual Klingon informants to spill so much as a

word. The best guess our tactical analysts can

make is that it was the site of some heroic Klingon

military action in the Cardassian

invasion."

"Unlikely,"

said Worf. "The only battlefields sacred

to Klingons are those where a single warrior or ship

held off an overwhelmingly superior force. The

Car-dassians were never that." Nechayev's frown

deepened. "Then what's your explanation, Commander?

Do you really believe the Klingons are shooting down

Federation science vessels just to keep the cometary

fireworks show to themselves?"

"No." If he felt discomforted at having

drawn the needling attention of their sector commander,

Worf

didn't show it in either voice or expression.

"What we are seeing is most likely an internal

Klingon dispute of some kind, with the Victoria

Adams inadvertently caught in the middle. The

presence of only a single house among the Klingons

stranded on the planet--"

"What Klingons

stranded on the planet?" Nechayev blinked in

surprise. Sisko cleared his throat to draw the

transmitter's autofocus back to him. "I

started to tell you that our crash survivors are being

held hostage by one of three groups of

Klingons who say they have been stranded on this

planet." Nechayev's eyes narrowed. "And the

fact that all these stranded Klingons come from a single

house makes you think they might be political

exiles? Imprisoned in the neutral zone because of

some power struggle in the Klingon High Command?"

"Yes." The glint of Worf's dark eyes now

held surprise and discomfiture in equal

quantities. Sisko could have told him not

to underestimate Nechayev's intelligence. He

might not always like her strategic decisions, but he

had to admit that the admiral had a raptor-swift

grasp of salient facts. "However, since we do

not yet know why or how these Klingons came to be

marooned here, I cannot speculate as to the exact

nature of the dispute." Nechayev's thin, pale

brows arched. "It could be anything. With all the recent

unrest and turmoil he just quelled in the Klingon

High Council, Chancellor Gowron could be

unwilling to let any hint of internal dissension get

out."

"Agreed,"

said Worf. "It will thus be a point of 70

great honor to the Klingons to keep the blockade

manned, to prevent the dishonored ones from

escaping their sentence of exile."

"Which is now,"

Sisko pointed out, "a sentence of death."

"Because of the comet

disintegration." Nechayev followed his logic as

easily as she had followed Worf's. "Are the

Klingons demanding evacuation to safe haven in

return for releasing the crash survivors?"

"No." Sisko tried to mask the

exasperation in his voice, but suspected he

didn't do a very good job. "Most want us to just

leave them alone to die. A few want us to give

them enough technology to let them survive the

bombardment. But the ones who actually have custody of the

survivors from the Victoria Adams want us

to save the entire planetary ecosystem by sweeping

the comet debris out of the system." Sisko had

rarely seen Admiral Nechayev taken

by surprise, and never seen her speechless. Until

now. The arctic blue of her eyes glittered at

him for a long moment, but only the background sizzle

and thrum of small ice particles vaporizing off

their shields filled the stunned silence. "The

Klingons want you to protect the planet they were

stranded on against their will?" Her words were so

filled with disbelief that they sizzled almost as much as the

melting ice. "Why?" Sisko took a deep

breath. "We don't know. We haven't even made

direct contact with them yet. So far, my away

team has gotten all of its information from the

Victoria Adams's communications officer. He

was sent to the main exile camp to deliver the

ultimatum, but he was wounded too badly

to identify where he was brought from. Major Kira and

Commander Dax are interrogating the other Klingon

exiles now in an attempt to locate where this

splinter group might be hiding."

"Do they really think the other Klingons will betray

them?" "They might, if Dax can convince them it's the

honorable thing to do. Even if she can't, we can always

divert a few of the oncoming fragments, to convince them

of our good intentions for long enough to evacuate the crash

survivors. After that--"

"After that, it's not our problem,"

Nechayev said bluntly. "Are we

absolutely sure the rest of the Victoria

Adams crew and passengers are still alive?"

"Yes." He wasn't, but had a

feeling it wouldn't be wise to admit that

to Nechayev. "Then your orders,

Captain, are to negotiate their release as soon

as possible. If you don't succeed before the Klingons

reestablish their blockade, I suggest you clear the

area at that time."

"You suggest?" Sisko cocked a

startled look at his commander. "You're not making that

an order?" Nechayev grimaced. "God knows,

I'd like to. I'd rather not lose the best ship in my

sector--not to mention the entire staff of a space

station that isn't exactly the most requested post in

Starfleet--over a few damned chunks of comet."

She fell silent and her lips tightened, as if it

was difficult for her to decide how to phrase the

next part of her transmission. "There is a

retired officer among the tourist party who under no

circumstances must fall into the hands of the Klingon

High Council. Under no

circumstances. "She repeated it with enough emphasis

to make Sisko's eyebrows lift. "Can you tell

"No," said Nechayev flatly. "Even the

knowledge of his whereabouts is classified information. If the

Federation Diplomatic Service ever found out that he

risked his life just to see some comets crash

into KDZ-E26--I mean E25--"

"We've been

calling it Armageddon," Odo informed her.

"Appropriate," said Nechayev dryly.

"Considering the hell there's going to be to pay if we

lose the Defiant as well as the Victoria

Adams there. Not to mention starting a three-way war

between the Federation, the Cardassian Empire, and the

Klingons."

"But if we manage to evade the Klingon

blockade long enough to rescue our crash survivors

--" Sisko let the sentence trail off, eying his

commander closely for signs of disa pproval. The

admiral regarded him with cold eyes, but allowed

an ironic slice of smile to appear. "In that

case, Captain, I might just be willing

to overlook your blatant disregard for my opinion."

Sisko nodded. "Understood." Nechayev reached

forward to cut the contact, then paused to give him a

last icy look. "One more thing. If you get a

confirmed report from your away team that the

Victoria Adams's survivors have been

killed, either by comet impact or by your Klingon

activists, I want you out of that death trap

immediately. And that's an order." Sisko scowled up

at the viewscreen for a long moment after the

admiral's image snapped out of

existence, but it wasn't the dusty skies of

Armageddon that were aggravating him. He now had

breathing space in which to find a solution to his

unexpected hostage crisis, but it was breathing

space with an enormous price tag attached.

What he needed was a way to protect the scorched

planet below him from further cometary damage, and he

needed it soon enough to get his crash survivors freed

before the Defiant started an interplanetary war.

"Commander Worf," Sisko said abruptly. "If

we angle and disperse our shields to sweep up as

many comets as possible, how many trips across the

debris tail will we have to make to protect the

planet from impact for the next few days?" The

Klingon officer tapped a query into Dax's

piloting console and scowled at the results.

"Approximately two hundred and seventeen,"

he said unhappily. "The maneuver will take almost

two days to complete."

"Too slow," O'Brien

warned. "And too risky. There's bound to be a

couple of comets that sneak past us while we're

sweeping up the rest."

"And if a Klingon ship

arrives to resume the blockade, there's

too much chance they'll catch us only partially

shielded. That's not good enough." Sisko strode up

and down the length of the bridge, ignoring the wary

look he got from his replacement science officer.

No doubt the young man was wondering if his commanding

officer's legendary temper was about to erupt. "We

need another strategy, gentlemen, and we need it

fast. We have to convince those Klingons down there that

we're making good on our promise--" "--without

actually making good on it?" Odo lifted a

caustic eyebrow. Sisko favored his security

officer with an impatient look. "Constable, if you have

a better way to get rid of all those comets out there

--" "Why don't we just shoot them?" It could have

been a mocking question, but the steady intensity of Odo's

gaze told Sisko he Was serious. He paused

with his mouth half-open to snap a dismissive reply,

then slanted a glance at his chief tactical

officer. "Is that feasible?" This time, Worf

didn't have to consult the computer to answer. "There is

a limit to how wide a spread we can achieve without

losing the ability to vaporize, but cometary ice has

such low density that it does not present a

significant constraint. However, when any kind of

debris is clustered this closely in

space, phaser beams tend to be diffracted by the

leading edge and leave the interior of the debris cloud

untouched."

"So we can't

do broad-beam destruction," Sisko concluded.

"What about point and shoot?"

"Selecting just the largest and most threatening

fragments?" Worf nodded as if to answer his own

question. "If we keep the phaser beam narrowly

focused, it will not diffract. We can target almost

any fragment in the tail for destruction." Sisko

grunted. "Then all we need to know is which fragments

have the highest probability of impacting with the

planet's surface." He paused, glancing over

at the young ensign manning the science station. "Ensign

Farabaugh?" he prodded, when he got no

response. "Sir?" The young man glanced back

at him WORRIEDLY, alert but obviously unsure

of exactly what was needed. Sisko tried not to let

too much impatience show in his voice. It wasn't

Farabaugh's fault that Dax would have already realized

what he wanted and programmed her scan accordingly.

"Have the computer mark and track all fragments with an

eighty-five percent probability of impact over

the next five days. Concentrate on the

most dangerous fragments--the large ones within a ten

thousand kilometer range."

"Aye, sir." Looking

relieved to be assigned a specific task,

Farabaugh bent over his console, punching in the

scanning parameters. "Um--I'LL probably

need to run a probabilistic vector model

to account for fragment interactions. First results

might take about seven minutes."

"Very well." Sisko swung

back to eye the remainder of his bridge crew,

smiling for the first time in what seemed like a long while.

He always felt better when he had some immediate goal

to pursue. "I think we could all stand to brush up

on our manual track-and-fire skills, don't

you, Commander? Who wants to go first?"

"Not me," Odo assured him. "I don't find

blowing up inanimate objects as pleasurable an

activity as you HUMANOIDS appear to."

"That's

all right, Constable. I need you to keep an eye

on the entire system, watching for ion trails."

Sisko glanced over his shoulder. "Ready with

tracking coordinates, Mr. Farabaugh?"

"Almost, sir. I still need to

plot--" The young science officer broke off,

staring down at something on his screen. "Captain

Sisko, we've just been hailed by a Cardassian

battle cruiser! I'm putting it on-screen

now." The dust-stained oceans of Arma we need to know

is which fragments have the highest probability of

impacting with the planet's surface." He paused,

glancing over at the young ensign manning the science

station. "Ensign Farabaugh?" he prodded, when he

got no response. "Sir?" The young man glanced

back at him

WORRIEDLY, alert but obviously unsure of

exactly what was needed. Sisko tried not to let

too much impatience show in his voice. It wasn't

Farabaugh's fault that Dax would have already realized

what he wanted and programmed her scan accordingly.

"Have the computer mark and track all fragments with an

eighty-five percent probability of impact over

the next five days. Concentrate on the most

dangerous fragments--the large ones within a ten thousand

kilometer range."

"Aye, sir." Looking

relieved to be assigned a specific task,

Farabaugh bent over his console, punching in the

scanning parameters. "Um--I'LL

probably need to run a probabilistic vector

model to account for fragment interactions. First

results might take about seven minutes."

"Very well." Sisko swung

back to eye the remainder of his bridge crew,

smiling for the first time in what seemed like a long while.

He always felt better when he had some immediate goal

to pursue. "I think we could all stand to brush up

on our manual track-and-fire skills, don't

you, Commander? Who wants to go first?"

"Not me," Odo assured him. "I don't find

blowing up inanimate objects as pleasurable an

activity as you HUMANOIDS appear to."

"That's

all right, Constable. I need you to keep an eye

on the entire system, watching for ion trails."

Sisko glanced over his shoulder. "Ready with

tracking coordinates, Mr. Farabaugh?"

"Almost, sir. I still need to

plot--" The young science officer broke off,

staring down at something on his screen. "Captain

Sisko, we've just been hailed by a Cardassian

battle cruiser! I'm putting it on-screen

now." The dust-stained oceans of Armageddon

vanished, replaced by a deeply furrowed

Cardassian face. "Captain Sisko of the

U.s.s. Defiant, this is Gul Hidret of the

Cardassian war-cruiser Olxinder." It was

unusual to see such an elderly soldier still serving

as a gul, but the shrewd glitter in Hidret's

eyes told Sisko he wasn't dealing with some

political appointee or recalled reserve

officer. "If you wish to avoid a conflict, please

acknowledge this hail at once." Sisko flexed his

fingers on the arms of his command chair, hard enough to feel

the duranium core beneath the padding. "Whatever you do,

Mr. Farabaugh," he said through his teeth, "do not

acknowledge that hail." He swung to scowl at

Odo. "Constable, why the hell didn't you detect

the Cardassians" arrival in the system?"

"For the

very good reason that they haven't arrived yet," the

Changeling shot back, unintimidated. "There are

no uncloaked vessels present within the entire

scanning range of my sensors."

"The communicator signal's

red-shift indicates the Cardassians are

hailing us from at least eighteen light-years out,"

Farabaugh volunteered. "It's so distant, I

can't even tell for sure if they're heading

our way or not." Sisko's scowl swung back

to the image of Gul Hidret, now waiting in

confident silence for a reply. "Then how in God's

name did they detect our pres

"They didn't," O'Brien said. "They're

beaming a directed wide-cast over the entire

Armageddon system.

They just suspect we're here." The engineer

looked up from his console, baffled. "What I want

to know is how they learned our travel plans. That

information sure didn't come from Starfleet."

"No doubt Cardassian High

Command has its sources." Sisko tapped a

reflective finger across his chin, debating pros and

cons. Although it was tempting to remain silent and

shatter Gul Hidret's smug sureness about the

Defiant's presence here, this wasn't a decision

he could entrust to gut feelings. "Gentlemen, give

me your opinions," he said abruptly. "Do we

respond or not?" Odo turned to give him a

quizzical look. "Our orders from Admiral

Nechayev were to refrain from starting a war. I

assume that means she'd prefer that no one know

we're here. Am I missing something?"

"The fact

that the Cardassians already know we're here,"

O'Brien retorted. "If we don't warn them

away, they might tangle with the Klingon blockade

and start the war that way."

"True," agreed Worf. "But I do not

advise we reply. The Cardassian battle

cruiser is at least e ighteen hours away, but there

may be other Cardassian ships in the area who can

backtrack our communications signal." Sisko

let out a frustrated breath. "And I want to know

what Gul Hidret is up to. Deadlock."

Ensign Farabaugh cleared his throat, looking

tentatively back and forth between them. "Would it help

if we could respond to the Cardassians with a

ricochet signal?" Sisko swung to face his

youngest bridge officer. "A

signal that can't be traced back to the Defiant?

Can you do that?" He got a shy grin in response.

"With all the comets around here, Captain? No

problem. The signal quality will degrade a lot

when it bounces, but it should still get through."

"Do it." Sisko turned back to face the

waiting image of Gul Hidret, summoning up

all his self-control for the next few minutes.

"Notify me when we're on-line."

"Hang on, sir, I'm

working out a three-way bounce... scanning for

target... All right, we're connected. Go ahead,

Captain."

"Gul Hidret of the Olxinder, this

is Captain Benjamin Sisko of the defiant.

Can you read me?"

"Barely."

Judging from the squeal of feedback and the way

Hidret squinted at his viewscreen, the

Car-dassian wasn't lying. "Are you engaged in

battle with the Klingons?" Sisko lifted one

eyebrow, knowing the gesture probably couldn't be

detected by his counterpart. Had there been a

slightly hopeful tone in that question? "We're just

experiencing some cometary interference, Gul Hidret.

What do you want?"

"To save

Cardassia," Hidret snapped back,

brusquely enough to make Sisko's gut tighten with

apprehension. When a gul dispensed with sly innuendo

and circumspect hints, you knew you were in trouble.

"We know the system you are in is under Klingon

control. If you aren't fighting them, I'll have

to assume you're in league with them and

proceed accordingly."

Sisko grimaced. "Gul Hidret, there are

no Klingons in this system right now." Sisko

ignored Worf's frown and Odo's disapproving

look. He knew a Federation diplomat would

probably have fainted to hear him dish out that information so

generously, but there was a method to his madness. "And

our own presence here is only temporary. As

soon as we locate some Federation crash

survivors--"

"--y'll abandon the system." Gul Hidret

snorted in deep suspicion, the lines in his

face deepening. "Forgive me if I doubt you. The

Federation cannot be ignorant of the reason the Klingons

have set up a blockade around such a worthless old

scar of a planet."

"You mean the political exiles they stranded

here?" That innocent question turned the engraved lines in

the old Cardassian's face from crevasses

to ravines. "So they say! If you ask me, it's just

an convenient excuse to claim they control the

system." Sisko exchanged baffled looks with his

bridge crew. None of them, not even Odo,

looked as if the gul's comment made any more sense

to them than it did to Sisko. But the shrewd

glint of dark eyes on the screen assured him that,

no matter how preposterous his story sounded, this old

officer wasn't senile yet. "Gul Hidret, you

just finished telling us how worthless this planet is.

Why would the Klingons need an excuse to claim

it?" That got him the bared teeth of a more normally

unctuous Cardassian smile. "I expect because

it's the source of all Cardassia's geset."

Even through the bounced and fuzzy signal, he must have

seen Sisko's incomprehension. "It is the only

known cure for

ptarvo fever, a disease that decimates our young,"

he elaborated. "And it's only available in

quantity from that dead and blasted planet you now

orbit." That comment, so apparently reasonable on the

surface, sparked a snort of pure derision from

Odo. Sisko shot him a quick glance, and the

Changeling emphasized his skepticism by smacking

a palm down to cut the audio channel on his

communications board before he spoke. "Gul

Hidret is either a remarkably incompetent liar,

or doesn't have much respect for our intelligence,"

he told the captain bluntly. "What makes you

say that, Constable?"

"Ptarvo fever is a colloquial

term

for the first stirrings of paltegen hormones in young

Cardassian males. What Humans might call

"spring fever."" Odo inclined his head at the

gul, now mouthing unheard words at the viewscreen.

"He's hiding something." Sisko grunted, and

motioned him to open the audio channel again. He

didn't waste any time responding to the gul's

indignant accusations. "If ptarvo fever is such

an emergency, why aren't you bringing a scientific and

medical ship to study the geset and learn how

to synthesize it? Why send in a military

vessel?" Hidret heaved a patently exaggerated

sigh. "Precisely what we were planning to do,

Captain, before the Klingons arrived and set up their

illegal blockade. Since then, the Empire

has been biding its time, hoping the Klingons would

leave--but finding out that the Federation is now on the

side of our old enemies was too much. The High

Command decreed that it was time to intervene, before the vital

secret of geset was lost to us forever."

"We're not on the side of the Klingons,"

Sisko said impatiently. "In fact, we

couldn't be further from it."

"Then why have they allowed you

to stay in a system that they have chased all of our

scouts and warships away from?" Sisko groaned.

That was exactly the kind of flawed reasoning that could

lead to military confrontation. But how could he

correct Hidret's assumptions without opening up

awkward questions about his own foolhardy presence in this

system? Somehow, he didn't think Nechayev would

approve of telling the Cardassian High Command

about the strategically important Starfleet

veteran who had crashed with the other survivors.

Fortunately, Worf took that decision out of his

hands. "Why do you think the Klingons on the planet

are not truly exiles?"

"Because

when we first detected their presence, we offered

to evacuate them," Gul Hidret retorted. "And

they flatly refused. If they had been sent to that

comet-blasted planet against their will, why would they not

want to leave?" Worf's low rumble echoed across the

squealing feedback from the bounced signal. "It is

a matter of honor. That is why you cannot possibly

understand it."

"Ah, the excuse Klingons always use to disguise

their covert activities!" Hidret snapped

back. "I feel confident that whatever those

so-called exiles are doing on that planet, it is

far from honorable--and it is probably aimed at

destroying the Cardassian Empire!"

"And I feel confident that you are lying through your

teeth," muttered Worf, before Sisko waved him

into silence. Fortunately, the squeals of feedback

must have distorted the tactical officer's words enough

to mask them. Gul Hidret screwed his face into a

squint again. "What did you say?" Sisko took

a deep breath. A reckless plan, kindled from

equal parts desperation and cynicism, had assembled

itself in his brain while Worf and the gul had been

talking. He saw no reason to delay putting it

into action. "I said you can easily discover whether those

exiles are working against your government. Why don't

you ask them to let you harvest geset in return for

protecting them against the comets that are hitting the

planet? Your battle cruiser's big enough to sweep

the debris away just by recalibrating and diffusing your

shields. That way, even if the exiles refused

your terms, you would at least protect your source of

geset from destruction."

"What?" He couldn't tell if it was anger,

loathing, or just sheer surprise that bleached out

Hidret's face to the color of old

wax, but the reaction was even more vehement than he'd

expected. "You expect me to depower my shields

and risk the safety of my ship just to save the lives

of some Klingons?"

"No," Sisko said silkily.

"I expect you to risk your ship to save the

lives of your children." The old Cardassian's face

tightened, showing stubborn bones beneath his sagging

wrinkles, but he gave no other sign of having had

his bluff called. "A valiant try, Captain.

Unlike Klingons, you Humans do occasionally

manage to create battle strategies almost

devious enough to be interesting. But your attempt to render

me helpless is a little on the transparent side.

If I agreed to play janitor to your cometary

debris, no doubt I'd soon find myself under

attack from you and your Klingon allies." Sisko

didn't bother to deny that, since he was sure his

Klingon "allies" would have been only too happy

to fulfill Hidret's prophecy. "Then I

strongly suggest you keep away from this system, Gul

Hidret." "And tell your children with ptarvo fever

to try a cold shower instead of geset," Odo added,

in an even more sardonic voice than usual. "So

much for Federation mercy and fairness!" All

pretense of affability vaporized under a boiling

rage that turned Hidret's wrinkled face copper

brown. "We will see who ends up in control of this

system in the end, after the Klingons return and find

you in it!" Sisko smiled, buoyed up by the grim

satisfaction of having forced a Cardassian

to admit to something resembling the truth. "Ah, but

don't forget," he said pleasantly. "The

Klingons are now our allies." With one last howl

that could have been retransmitted static or pure

Cardassian rage, the connection between them went

black. Sisko took a deep breath, then glanced

across at Odo. "Well, Constable? Does Gul

Hidret really think we're allied with the

Klingons?" Odo's face might not have been very

expressive, but he made up for that by the depth of

disgust he could express in a single snort. "What

Gul Hidret thinks is that we're going to get

massacred

by the Klingon blockade. Right now, he's just

positioning himself to come in after the battle's over."

"Then let us hope he miscalculates and

arrives early," Worf said fiercely. "Because

if there is a choice between us and the Cardassians when

the Klingon blockade reforms, I know which

of us will be the first target."

CHAPTER 4

IN HIS LONG years of Starfleet service,

Benjamin Sisko had seen sulfur ice moons

torn apart and neutron stars lashed into turmoil

by passing cosmic strings. As a young ensign, he'd

once watched a red giant star go nova; as a much

older and wiser commander, he'd not only discovered the

Bajoran wormhole, but had been the first Human

to travel through it. In all his years and parsecs of

passage through the galaxy, however, he'd never seen

the effects of a comet impact on a Class-M

planet. Until now. There had not even been a

flare of comet tail across the field of the

Defiant's vision to alert them. Five minutes

after Gul Hidret's apoplectic face had cut

to black and Ensign Farabaugh had hurriedly

transferred Armageddon's rusty image back up

on the viewscreen, a brilliant white explosion

spasmed over the planet's sea-covered northern

pole. Sisko jerked back from the glare, even though

he knew they were orbiting far above the planet's

stratosphere. He swung instinctively toward the

weapons console. "Report!"

"Sensors have detected a seventeen

gigajoule explosion at planetary

coordinates seventy-three point five

by one-twenty-four point nine," his security officer

said. "The radiation signal shows only natural

thermal decay, no evidence of ionized plasma

or radioactivity."

"That's a comet impact." O'Brien sent

Sisko a grim look from engineering. "And it's

only a few hundred kilometers from our away

team at the main Klingon outpost."

"Four-hundred-and-ninety-seven

kilometers, to be precise," Worf clarified

in a stiffly proper voice. "However, vital

signs on all away team members appear stable."

Sisko didn't bother asking why the Klingon had

programmed that information--ordinarily the

responsibility of the Defiant's science officer

--to route through his piloting console. Instead, he

turned his frown on Dax's young replacement.

"Ensign Fara-baugh, I asked you to locate the

most threatening fragments in the cometary field. What

happened?"

"Nothing, sir." Worf slewed around at his

pilot's station to bestow an even fiercer scowl on the

young man. "Seventeen gigajoules is

equivalent to the force of nine photon torpedoes!

Would you call that nothing if you were down on that

planet?" Farabaugh's eyes widened slightly,

but his sincere

look never wavered. "The explosion was

thirty-seven kilometers up in the atmosphere,

Commander Worf. I doubt our away team even

heard a rumble of thunder from it."

"Lucky for them," O'Brien commented. "And for us.

What are the odds the one comet we miss intercepting

is the one that explodes prematurely?"

"We didn't miss that comet, sir," Farabaugh

said in mild surprise. "The computer noted its

trajectory ten minutes ago, while the captain

was talking to Gul Hidret. It just didn't trigger

an alarm." Sisko lifted an eyebrow at his young

science officer. "You knew that fragment was going

to disintegrate too high to cause any damage?

How?" "Relative velocity, sir." Farabaugh

punched a series of commands into his science console,

and the fading afterglow of the comet impact on Armageddon

disappeared. The staffess black screen that replaced

it told Sisko this was a computer simulation, rather than

a real sensor view. Multicolored streaks

swam and spiraled across the black

background like minnows in a chaotic school, leaving

faint, glowing trails behind them. "After I scanned

the comet field to find the ones most likely

to collide with Armageddon, I ran impact

simulations for each of them. You can see from the white and

blue streaks that most of the ice fragments are moving

at extremely or moderately high velocity

relative to the orbital motion of Armageddon."

"And those are the most threatening ones?" O'Brien

guessed. "Actually, no, sir. Any comets that

hit the planets atmosphere fast are subjected

to enormous crushing

forces. Given the low density of cometary ice,

almost all the fast-moving fragments detonate high

in the stratosphere. Only the ones over seventy

kilometers in diameter will survive long enough

to affect the surface." Farabaugh tapped another

command into his panel, and a few dozen comet fragments

lit up in reds and yellows. "These are the dangerous

fragments--the ones that are either big enough or slow enough

to survive their passage through the atmosphere.

They're the ones we have to worry about."

"Will they also crash into the planet with no warning?"

Worf demanded. Odo sent him a sardonic glance.

"Comets are not Klingon warriors,

Commander. You can hardly expect them to issue a

proper challenge before they attack."

"No." Despite his agreement,

however, Sisko noticed the Klingon sat scowling

up at the screen, as if he could somehow intimidate

the comets into more honorable behavior. "How much

leeway do we have before an impact event, Mr.

Farabaugh?" Sisko asked. "I've programmed

the computer to issue a priority-one alarm half an

hour before each projected impact." The young science

officer glanced back at him uncertainly. "Will that

be long enough?"

"That

depends on what preventive action we're going

to take." Odo glanced across at Sisko. "Which was

what I believe we were discussing before we were so

rudely interrupted by the Cardassians."

"I don't think there's

much left to discuss." Sisko

sat back in his command chair and steepled his fingers.

"Phasers are ready and the coast is clear. Which of

these comets do you want us to shoot first, Mr.

Farabaugh?"

"Um--actually, Captain, there's something I

wanted to tell you about that." The young officer

cleared his throat diffidently. "I'd rather we

didn't shoot any of them, if you don't mind."

Sisko saw Worf turn to scowl again at the

beleaguered ensign, and waved the Klingon into fuming

silence. "All right, Mr. Farabaugh.

Explain."

"Actually, sir, I think I know what he

means," O'Brien said before Farabaugh could gather

himself together. "We learned about this in planetary

engineering. If you explode a comet that's threatening

to strike a planet, all you do is increase the area

of devastation by turning it from one big impactor into a

whole bunch of medium-sized ones."

"Exactly," Farabaugh said, looking

relieved. "The destruction quotient goes up

anywhere from four to ten times, depending on the number of

fragments and their trajectories. And since a

phaser blast would tend to selectively refract

through cracks and fissures in the comet, it would be almost

impossible not to break it into fragments." Worf's

scowl faded into a more thoughtful frown. "What if we

increased dispersion and decreased intensity on the

phasers? That should vaporize the whole comet even if

it breaks apart."

"Except it will also create a

radiating impulse wave that will disturb other

comets in the cloud into new orbits," O'Brien

said. "Which means we might add one or two more

major threats for every one we remove."

"And there's no way to know that

without running the trackill that be long enough?"

"That depends on what

preventive action we're going to take." Odo

glanced across at Sisko. "Which was what I believe

we were discussing before we were so rudely interrupted by the

Cardassians."

"I don't think there's much left to

discuss." Sisko

sat back in his command chair and steepled his fingers.

"Phasers are ready and the coast is clear. Which of

these comets do you want us to shoot first, Mr.

Farabaugh?"

"Um--actually, Captain, there's something I

wanted to tell you about that." The young officer cleared his

throat diffidently. "I'd rather we didn't shoot

any of them, if you don't mind." Sisko saw

Worf turn to scowl again at the beleaguered ensign,

and waved the Klingon into fuming silence. "All right,

Mr. Farabaugh. Explain."

"Actually, sir, I think I know what

he means," O'Brien said before Farabaugh could

gather himself together. "We learned about this in planetary

engineering. If you explode a comet that's threatening

to strike a planet, all you do is increase the area

of devastation by turning it from one big impactor into a

whole bunch of medium-sized ones."

"Exactly," Farabaugh said, looking

relieved. "The destruction quotient goes up

anywhere from four to ten times, depending on the number of

fragments and their trajectories. And since a

phaser blast would tend to selectively refract

through cracks and fissures in the comet, it would be almost

impossible not to break it into fragments." Worf's

scowl faded into a more thoughtful frown. "What if we

increased dispersion and decreased intensity on the

phasers? That should vaporize the whole comet even if

it breaks apart."

"Except it will also create a

radiating impulse wave that will disturb other

comets in the cloud into new orbits," O'Brien

said. "Which means we might add one or two more

major threats for every one we remove."

"And there's no way to know that

without running the tracking program all over again

every time we vaporize," added Farabaugh.

"Too risky. We might POINT a comet at the

planet before we even knew we did it." Sisko

tapped his steepled fingers against his chin, considering his

rapidly dwindling alternatives. "Well, the one

thing we agree on is that we can't just sit here and

let Armageddon happen. So we'll have to find

something we can do." He shot an inquiring glance at

his chief engineer. "You must remember something else from

that planetary engineering class of yours, Chief.

What were the recommended ways of dealing with an

imminent comet impact?" "Deflection by modulated

photon torpedo blast," O'Brien said

promptly. "The idea was not to break it up, just

alter its trajectory enough to turn the hit into a

miss."

"And the photon blast probably stripped off just

enough of the dust mantle to vaporize a layer of

interior ice," Farabaugh guessed. "Then the gas

spurt would push the comet in the opposite

direction."

"Right." O'Brien waved a hand at the

multitude of colored streaks on the main

viewscreen. "The problem is, there's a lot more red

and yellow blobs up there than we have torpedoes.

And even quantum torpedoes aren't strong

enough to reach more than one or two comets at a time."

"Can we achieve the same effect by modulating

our phaser array?" Worf demanded.

The chief engineer shook his sandy head. "We'd have

to remodulate it for each blast, and you know how many

hours that would take."

"Not to

mention the fact that it would make the phasers

inoperable for defensive purposes," Odo commented.

"And considering that I've just detected the ion trail

of a cloaked vessel entering the system--"

"Location,

velocity, estimated size?" Sisko demanded.

For all the implicit trust he felt in Odo and

Kira, there were times when the captain would have given

anything for them to have had Starfleet training.

"Extrapolated destination?" Odo scanned his

panel. "Cloaked vessel is currently

two-hundred-and-fifty thousand kilometers out from

system center, traveling at seventy-five percent

impulse speed and slowing rapidly. It appeared

to be a Jfolokh-class vessel, but with the ion

trail dissipating as it slows, the computer can't be

sure. Extrapolated destination is an

equatorial orbit around Armageddon."

He looked up at Sisko. "If I had

to guess, Captain, I'd say the Klingon

blockade was back in town." Sisko grunted.

"Mr. Worf, notify the away team that from now

on, all communications are on secure channels

only. And tell them they either beam up soon or not

for a while." He turned toward his chief engineer.

"I don't care how you do it, Chief, but I want

the Defiant's emissions down as close to zero as

you can manage for the next few hours. I don't

want those Klingons to get even a sniffof our

presence here until we've located the survivors

and are ready to beam them out."

92 O'Brien grimaced. "I don't know about

zero, sir. I can recirculate the ship's thermal

output and put a magnetic bottle around our warp

exhaust, but there's not too much I can do about the

diffuse ionization off the shields. And with all the

comets bumbling through our current orbit--"

"--we can't turn shields off," Sisko

finished for him. "But we may be able to lower the

transfer charge without compromising our deflection

capacity. Do the best you can, Chief."

"Aye, sir." O'Brien

scrambled out of his chair, pausing only

long enough to tap open his direct channel down to the

Engineering deck. "Frantz, cap the warp

exhaust, now. Ornsdorf and Frisinger, start

recycling our waste heat through the impulse baffles

to equalize it with ambient."

"Aye, sir."

The competent calmness of that reply was so

obviously modeled after O'Brien's own legendary

composure that Sisko had to smile. "Desired

delta on the heat output?"

"As close to planetary infrared output as

possible," O'Brien said. "And I'm coming down

to recalibrate the power circuits for the shields, so

get all those lines stripped and ready for

modulation."

"Aye, sir." Satisfied that his ship was going

to be as invisible as any able-bodied vessel could

be, Sisko turned his attention back to Worf.

"Any response from the away team, Commander?" The

Klingon's glum look told him the answer before he

even began to speak. "Dr. Bashir says he is

not finished evaluating casualties among the new

Klingon encampment, Captain. They appear to have

experienced at least three impact events, although

none were as direct and damaging as the one that

affected the first settlement. He has asked me

to beam Ensign Ledonne into the new camp to aid

him."

"Is the Klingon

ship still out of short-range sensor detection

limit?" Sisko asked his security officer. When

Odo assented with a grunt, he nodded his approval

back to Worf. "Tell the doctor this will be his last

chance to reassign his team, or to beam any Klingons

aboard for medical treatment. What progress have the

others made in locating the hostages?"

"Commander Dax

has sent a full report on the interrogations

she and Major Kira have conducted so far, but says

they have been unable to convince any among this group of

exiles to cooperate with them as Gordek did. She

is no closer to identifying who the hostage-takers

are, much less what their location might be. She

has also transmitted the data she has collected

on the planet's environmental conditions, to be

attached to your logs." "Hmm." Rather than

reassuring him, that news made Sisko's skin

crawl with apprehension. The only time Dax went out

of her way to keep him informed of her scientific

discoveries was when she thought she might not be

coming back to explain them in glorious detail herself.

"Keep a high-security communications channel

available for the away team to use at all times,

Mr. Worf. And keep a close eye on their

vital signs. We still don't know if the exiles

they're dealing with are any more trustworthy than the

ones who found the Victoria Adams." Worf

grunted curt approval of that policy. "I have

already programmed an automated linkage between the

shields and the main transporter controls. We can have

the away team aboard with only a moment's loss in

defensive capability."

"Good work, Commander." Sisko saw the irritated

look Ensign Farabaugh threw Worf, and shook

his head warningly at the younger man. It was true that

Worf's preemptive action had usurped some of the

science officer's traditional

responsibilities, but the end result was all that

mattered right now, not how it was achieved. He

distracted Farabaugh with a wave of his hand at the

viewscreen. "As long as we've got a computer

simulation running up there, can we add the Klingons'

estimated course-heading to it?"

"Yes, sir. All I need is the tracking

data from Mr. Odo's station."

"I'm transferring it to you now. And for

your information, young man, I am not Mister Odo."

"Yes, sir. Sorry,

sir." Farabaugh ducked his head over his

panel, and, a moment later, a bright green disk

appeared at the far edge of the viewscreen. Even if

he hadn't known it was the ion-trace of the cloaked

Klingon vessel, Sisko's space-trained eyes

would have been caught by its unusual rate of

deceleration and its erratic slalom swings through the

comet field. "The Klingon vessel isn't

deflecting the comet debris, Captain,"

Farabaugh said unnecessarily. "It's taking

evasive action."

"I can see that."

Sisko could admire the fierce jerks and swoops

of the unknown vessel, even while he pitied any

Klingons aboard with weak stomachs. No inertial

dampener in the galaxy could cope with shifts that

rapid. "Interpretation, Mr. Worf?."

"I am not sure, Captain." Worf squinted

up at the

screen as if he could visualize the Klingon

ship better that way. "Perhaps they are practicing

battle maneuvers. If so, they are not

standard ones."

"If I didn't know any better," Odo said

drily, "I would say they were out glee-riding."

"Glee-riding?" Worf repeated. "It's what

Bajoran adolescents call careening as close

as they can to the rocks when they're out ice-sailing.

Personally, I call it trying to kill themselves just for the

fun of it." Watching the green disk swing wildly

out of its way to needle between two closely orbiting

comet fragments, Sisko had to admit that Odo's

description did seem apt. "If that really is a

Jfolokh-class vessel, it's running damn

close to its operating tolerances. The pilot's either

very good or very foolish."

"Or both,"

Worf said grimly. "I find it difficult

to believe that this ship has been sent to resume the

official Klingon embargo."

"They don't know that

we're here," Sisko reminded him. "And they've

probably sent all their better ships to man the

Cardassian border. No matter how it's getting

here, it's certainly headed for the orbit I'd

expect a blockading ship to take up."

"True." Worf glanced back over his

shoulder. "In that case, sir, I suggest continuous

passive scanning to be sure the Klingon vessel

does not attempt to beam anyone to or from the planet

surface." Sisko nodded at Farabaugh. "Do

it. And monitor their communications, too. I doubt

they'll be saying much on open channels, but it never

hurts to listen."

"Aye, sir."

The green disk that was the cloaked Klingon

vessel made one last swashbuckling swoop around

a spiraling comet fragment, then settled

reluctantly on station around the glowing amber sphere

representing Armageddon in the computer simulation.

Sisko lifted an eyebrow, noticing that the

skimmed comet fragment had been blasted into a

different direction by the encounter with the Klingon's warp

exhaust. "Looks like you'd better rerun your

impact prediction model, too, Mr.

Farabaugh," he said. "After all those close

encounters with the Klingons--" He broke off, sitting

straighter in his command chair. "That's what we can do!"

Odo gave him a caustic look. "Have a close

encounter with the Klingons?" "No--with any comet that

looks like it's going to hit the planet." Sisko

leaped out of his chair and began pacing, trying

to gather together his whirling thoughts. "We'll have to uncap

our warp core exhaust, at least long enough to alter the

orbit of the fragment we want to intercept. It's

either that or vent some of the thermal waste stored in the

impulse engines."

"Either way, we would leave a clear trail for the

Klingons to see," Worf pointed out. The

tactical officer did not sound negative, just

thoughtful. "If we plotted our course carefully,

however, we could use the planet's gravitational

field to loop us toward the comet with just a one- or

two-second impulse thrust. Then we would only

need to graze the comet with ou r angled shields in

order to deflect it." Farabaugh looked up from his

science console. "Can we plot a course that won't

affect the other

comets in the field, Commander? That way, our

collision models won't need to be rerun every time

we interfere."

"We can if we wait until the

comet is just about to enter Armageddon's gravity

well." Sisko came to a halt in front of the

viewscreen and pointed at the halo of clear space

around the planet. "All we'll need to do is

adjust the velocity of our circumpolar

orbit to be sure we're close to the comet's

projected entry point." Odo snorted. "And you

don't think the Klingons will notice when a comet

suddenly bounces off of empty space?"

"Not if they are on the

opposite side of the planet at the time,"

Worf said simply. "But that means solving some

intricate orbital mechanics equations--"

Sisko came to a halt in the center of his bridge,

stymied once again by the absence of Dax at the science

station. There was no way he could expect a

single-brained human to do all the monitoring,

modeling, and scanning his Trill science officer could

have handled with ease. "Mr. Farabaugh, who else

on the Defiant's crew has had science officer

training?" "UM--WELL, I went to the Academy

with Ensign Osgood down in the main weapons bay,

sir. I know she aced all her celestial

mechanics courses. And I think there's an

engineering tech named Thornton who did a stint on

a science research vessel. He's also an expert

on sensor systems." "Good. Contact Thornton

and tell him to come up and man your station. His job will

be to scan the Klingons and report back to you on

any changes in their orbit. You and

Osgood commandeer one of the

science labs and a sector of the main computer, and

set up a full-scale model of the comet belt.

I don't just want to know when every comet's going to hit

this planet, I want to know far enough in advance

to adjust our orbit, so we can intersect and

deflect it while it's still on the Klingon's blind

side. Is that clear?"

"Aye, sir!"

"I want your first

report by--" Sisko glanced at the shipboard

clock to estimate a reasonable deadline, and only

then realized why his eyes felt like he was squinting

past sand. From the time they'd left Deep Space

Nine yesterday until now, he'd put in seventeen

straight hours on duty. And so had the rest of his

original bridge crew, with the exception of Odo,

who had been forced to return to his cabin and

regenerate several hours ago.

"--oh-three-hundred hours. Odo, you have the

conn. Commander Worf, call up replacements for

your station and Chief O'Brien's." He got the

scowl he'd expected from the Klingon. "Captain--

was

"No buts, Mr. Worf,"

Sisko said crisply. "I refuse to take the

Defiant slow-dancing with comets unless my pilot

is fit and rested. Report back to the bridge

by oh-four-hundred. I assume we won't be

looking to deflect any impacts before then, Mr.

Farabaugh?"

"No, sir."

"Unless the Klingons start up

some target practice of their own." Odo's

ability to find a cloud in every silver lining would have

amused Sisko if his chief of security wasn't

right so depressingly often. "Let's hope that

doesn't happen, Constable." Sisko C ast a

sardonic look at the viewscreen. "Although if our

glee-riding friends over there do decide to start

shooting, with any luck they'll either be too drunk

or too motion-sick to aim straight."

The first dull crash jerked Kira's head around so

fast she nearly tumbled off the tall root she'd

been straddling. A puff of dust--or dislodged

vapor?--belched skyward like volcanic ejecta

above the impenetrable tract of plant life before

her. A tree just like the one on which she sat shuddered

dully where it poked up through the brush a dozen

meters away. Another unhurried

tremor; she felt this one vibrate through her bones,

and clenched at the roots underneath her as a flock of

silent, grey-green primates scattered away from

the rumble like startled pigeons. For just an instant,

she thought about calling out in alarm. She'd never heard

anything like this, couldn't scramble up any kind of

mental image to scare away more dire thoughts. The

closest thing memory could offer was the Cardassians'

giant mining drones, crunching their way through everything

that wasn't the ores they sought. But there were no ores

here, and presumably no Cardassians, either, so

her mind leapt to the only other thing this alien

environment had to offer a comet. The very

ridiculousness of that mental leap blew the rest of

her fears into silence. Back toward the main

expanse of clearing, dark Klingon figures

slunk moodily from place to place. Quiet yet

surly, biding the time leading up to their destruction with

what no doubt constituted a Klingon display of good

grace. While their lack of alarm helped

solidify her suspicion that no murderous rain of

ice was imminent, it also made her scowl in

private disgust. In the years since Bajor had

won its independence from Cardassia, Kira had

spent a great deal of effort trying to free

herself of what seemed unavoidable racism. In her

youth, fierce pride in her Bajoran heritage

had been the only thing that let her justify the anger

and bloodshed saturating her life as an

anticar-dassian terrorist. It wasn't until

she worked side by side with Humans and Trills and

Ferengi and Vulcans every day that she became aware of

how much her hatred of Cardassians had slipped

over into hatred of anything not Bajoran. The

realization had proved unexpectedly painful.

Disgust and loathing for the race who tortured your people

to near extinction had always seemed fair and right.

To forgive was the first step in forgetting, and forgetting was

a dishonor to the millions of Bajorans who had

died under Cardassian rule. She'd taken a

private satisfaction in flaunting the

Prophets' warning, "Hatred poisons the soil

so that nothing but more hatred can grow there." Her hatred

was different. Her hatred was just. And her impatience

with the Humans? Her distrust of the Ferengi? Her

disbelief in the Vulcans' sincerity? Her secret

suspicion that Trills did something immoral

by sharing themselves with a symbiont? It took her many

months to accept that all her fears, dislikes,

suspicions, and disdain were simply

fruits of the soil she'd let her just hatred

poison. After that, she'd begun the long task of

redemption. She'd even allowed herself the vanity of

believing she'd made

brilliant progress in learning to embrace the

values offered by other worlds and cultures. Until

today. She'd spent the better part of the last two

hours trying to wrap her mind around the concept that being

thumped, spat on, and snarled at by scowling

Klingons was little more than exchanging social

pleasantries. Not that she was any sort of expert

in their cultural ways. Still, her gut instincts just

didn't seem able to align themselves with what amounted

to a cultural habit of aggression. And I thought

I was a barbarian, she admitted with a sigh.

Picking her way carefully up the tree's rough

bark, she found a handhold above the tallest knee of

root and used that to hike herself almost a full meter

higher in an effort to improve her view. My

problem is, I just can't pretend I don't feel

what I feel. Dax's careful, rational

explanations aside, Kira found it hard to silence

those old instincts just for the sake of pretending she

respected any society that functioned more on

intimidation and posturing than on any kind

of true merit. Sympathy kept running aground

on the basic reality that every interview she and Dax

conducted had someone shouting and growling as though eager

to encourage a fight. If Dax hadn't suggested that

Kira spend some time off on her own--to "cool

off--the major might just have precipitated a

political situation of her own. A slow, chuffing

grumble crack-crashed its way closer through the stand of

brush to her left. Kira craned up on tiptoes

to steal a glimpse of the topmost surface of the

foliage, and instead caught only a

methane-tangy belch of breath in the face when the

creature making its way toward her finally smashed

its languorous way out of the undergrowth. By the time her

brain released some of its processing

capabilities from the act of bolting straight up the

tree, she was perhaps another two meters farther from the

clearing floor. She peered down--at least

slightly down--at the peaceful behemoth now

stripping bark from the woody growth it had just muscled

through. Not a Cardassian mining drone, but easily a

hefty second in both mass and size. It towered

a good four meters at the shoulder, with a huge,

blunt head that sloped down and forward to give it the

look of a crashball guardsman. A

flaret in their cultural ways. Still, her gut

instincts just didn't seem able to align themselves with

what amounted to a cultural habit of aggression.

And I thought I was a barbarian, she admitted with a

sigh. Picking her way carefully up the tree's

rough bark, she found a handhold above the tallest

knee of root and used that to hike herself almost a full

meter higher in an effort to improve her view.

My problem is, I just can't pretend I don't

feel what I feel. Dax's careful, rational

explanations aside, Kira found it hard to silence

those old instincts just for the sake of pretending she

respected any society that functioned more on

intimidation and posturing than on any kind of true

merit. Sympathy kept running aground on the

basic reality that every interview she and Dax conducted

had someone shouting and growling as though eager to encourage

a fight. If Dax hadn't suggested that Kira

spend some time off on her own--to "cool off--the

major might just have precipitated a political

situation of her own. A slow, chuffing grumble

crack-crashed its way closer through the stand of brush

to her left. Kir a craned up on tiptoes to steal

a glimpse of the topmost surface of the foliage,

and instead caught only a

methane-tangy belch of breath in the face when the

creature making its way toward her finally smashed

its languorous way out of the undergrowth. By the time her

brain released some of its processing

capabilities from the act of bolting straight up the

tree, she was perhaps another two meters farther from the

clearing floor. She peered down--at least

slightly down--at the peaceful behemoth now

stripping bark from the woody growth it had just muscled

through. Not a Cardassian mining drone, but easily a

hefty second in both mass and size. It towered

a good four meters at the shoulder, with a huge,

blunt head that sloped down and forward to give it the

look of a crashball guardsman. A flare of

bony plate ridged the back of its skull like a

tiara, angling to fit almost seamlessly with the armor-Like

skin encasing the rest of its bulk; necessary, no doubt,

to protect against whips and thorns and brambles as it

plowed its way through the hostile overgrowth that Dax and

Kira had reluctantly deemed impossible

to move through. The eyes it turned up toward Kira

were gentle, if stupid, and it paid her no more attention

than it took to fondle her toe with the tip of its

mobile upper lip before seeking out more edible fare

among the tree's scrubby leaves.

"Don't worry--she's harmless." Kira twisted

a look toward the voice, trying to look more annoyed

than embarrassed. "I was just climbing up for a

better view." Then she realized how awkwardly

she'd wrapped herself around a limb too narrow

to truly hold her weight, and couldn't hold back

her blush. "I guess I wasn't expecting

company," she finally managed. The Klingon girl

smiled--a smile remarkably free

of Klingon disdain, for all that it came and went like

a shooting star. Tossing a coil of woven plant

fiber onto one shoulder, the girl picked her way

across the top of the undisturbed brush-forest with an

ease almost rivaling that of the silent primates who still

danced back and forth across the large pachyderm's

trail. Even the bloody bandage cinched around her

thigh didn't seem to slow her much. She was easily

the youngest Klingon Kira had seen here at the Vrag

main camp, maybe a year or two past puberty,

the equivalent of a Bajoran fourteen-year-old.

She'd braided her glossy black hair into a

queue more severe even than Worf habitually

wore, but managed to offset that austerity with simple

formfitting clothes and not so much as a suggestion of the

armor and metalwork normally incorporated

into even the most casual Klingon attire. She

trailed one hand lightly down the huge animal's

side as she passed. The gesture reminded Kira

of nothing so much as the Bajoran farmers of her youth,

dropping unconscious touches here and there as they

walked among their herds, lest the clumsy

creatures forget a fragile humanoid moved

among them. "It's not like you couldn't have heard her

coming," the girl remarked as she stepped from

brush-tops to tree and offered Kira her hand.

"Banchory aren't very good at sneaking up on

anyone." Kira was surprised to recognize the

Klingon word for war wagon. She cast another

nervous look at the beast now languidly splintering

a branch the size of her thigh, and it occurred to her

that "war wagon" wasn't a bad description for these

animals.

Gingerly lowering one foot toward the brace the

girl created with her fist against the tree, Kira

did her best to unwind herself from her perch in something

resembling a dignified manner. "So did you bring

these..." She tried to remember exactly how the

girl had pronounced the word. "... these banchory from

Qo'nos with you?" The girl shook her head, caught

Kira's other foot against her shoulder before

the major could lose her balance, and guided her to the

relative safety of the roots with a strength that would have

been disproportionate in a Bajoran girl her

age. "No, the banchory are native

to Cha'xirrac. There used to be thousands of them."

She watched the banchory near them strip a long

peel of bark from one of the other trees, turning it

over, around, and inside out using nothing but the

delicate manipulations of its lips and tongue.

A flash of what might have been anger darkened the young

girl's face. "They once used this clearing in the

tuq'mor as an overnight spot, but they pretty

much avoid us now." By now, Kira had come to understand

that "tuq'mor" meant the impossibly thick snarl

of vines, bushes, trees, and ferns that seemed

to cover every inch of Armageddon's surface. It

occurred to Kira that she should have known that even

Klingons couldn't beat out a clearing the size of this

one without some kind of assistance. Kira forced herself

to sit without flinching when the banchory turned

to examine the other side of its newly made

clearing, all but brushing Kira with its stubby tail

as it lumbered past. "So why do they stay

away now?" she asked, as much to distract herself as

because she really cared for an answer. She

remembered the pile of mammoth carcasses by the

sea. "Is it because you hunt them?"

"Because Gordek and the other men

hunt them." The bitterness in her young voice

startled Kira. She clutched the rope over her

shoulder as though it were a precious bat'leth,

defiantly meeting Kira's gaze. "Grandmother

thinks we can do whatever we want because everyone on

Cha'xirrac will soon be dead. Gordek thinks we

can do whatever we want just because we can." A

peculiarly childlike frustration pursed the

girl's lips. "I thought honor was about more than just

how long your conduct was remembered, or what you could

force others to do." Kira's comm badge chirped before

she could think of how best to respond to such a comment.

"Dax to Kira." The Trill's voice sounded

stiff with frustration. "Could you join me and epetai

Vrag?"

"I'll be right there." She tapped off her

badge, then managed a smile for the girl with less

effort than she'd expected. "It was a pleasure

to meet youw"

"K'Taran." She thrust out her hand with

charmingly Human exuberance, but performed the

actual handshake with a certain clumsiness that

told Kira she'd never actually performed the

social ritual before. "Any pleasure belongs

to me," she said with deep sincerity. "The adults

say that you are the one who brought a doctor, to help

relieve our suffering while we wait for the end."

"Yes, we did."

Kira felt abruptly stupid. Here she was

chatting about local wildlife when it seemed almost

everyone and everything in the House of Vrag could

benefit from medical attention. "He was over in the

children's billet earlier, but probably has time

to look at your leg." She pointed out the trio of

dugouts where she'd last seen Bashir, as though

K'Taran might not know which ones they were. "He's

slim and dark, with dark hair." Then she remembered

the awkward Human handshake, and realized the girl

might have mistaken her for Human despite her

distinctly Bajoran Features. If recognizing

more subtle racial differences was challenging for

Klingons, she didn't want to think about how hard it

might be for the girl to tell Human male from

Human female. Especially when the female was as

tall and strong-boned as Dax. "He's the one with

short hair, and no freckles."

"Thank you." For a moment, she looked like

she might try the handshake again, but instead defaulted

to one fist against her chest in the Klingon equivalent.

"The concern you show for my people is honorable." Kira

watched her clamber off across the tuq'mor, marveling

again at the complexity of any word that so many people could use

to mean so many different things. That there could be so many

different forms of Klingon pleasantry seemed only

slightly more remarkable. The dugout tree-cave

currently hosting the Vrag Household conference

didn't look appreciably different than when

Kira had fled it more than an hour ago. Still too

dark, still too humid, still crammed with snarling,

snapping Klingons battling over yet another

gradation in the definition of "honor." Roots

snaked and intertwined so tightly through the walls that it

was impossible to tell what had been naturally

eroded into hollows by dripping water and what the

Klingons had excavated themselves. All their

attempts to personalize the dank, formless space

--all their tapestries and sculptures and

crudely fashioned furniture--only accentuated

what a dark, dirty, pitiful hovel the dugout

really was.

Dax seemed to appear out of nowhere, her soft

summons coalescing her figure from the

shadows just inside the dugout's low door. She

stood beside a rickety table, toying with the handle of a

simple water jug and watching the Klingons as they

argued. "We've got a problem." Kira nodded.

"You mean besides a shipload of missing Starfleet

retirees and rocks the size of space stations

falling on our heads?" The humor seemed to break

through Dax's pensiveness, and she turned away from the

discussion with a crooked smile. "In addition to that."

She dropped her voice to a more conspiratorial

tone. "The Klingon blockade is back.

Captain Sisko's going to cloak the Defiant and

try to avoid detection." Kira felt a little

clench in her stomach. "What about the away team? Can

we beam out?"

"Only if we leave now. No guarantees if

the Defiant is discovered." Because then the ship would have

to raise shields, and there'd be no telling when they

could lower them again. Kira paced in a slow circle,

rubbing at her eyes. "That would mean leaving without the

Victoria Adams's crew." Prophets, what

time was it back on board the Defiant? She felt

as though she hadn't slept in weeks. "And we'll

have to drag Bashir out by the hair. He won't leave

as long as there are casualties."

"But if we don't leave now," Dax pointed

out, ruthlessly nonpartisan, " we might not leave at

all."

"Then you will

simply be equal to the rest of us." Kira

tossed a glance over her shoulder, surprised to find

what had seemed a truly apocalyptic argument

now lulled enough for Rekan to eavesdrop. The others

arrayed beyond her, waiting; Kira couldn't tell how

much of their sour expressions were aimed at their

epetai and how much at her. "We're not completely

equal." Kira turned to face them squarely.

She'd be damned if she'd let anyone claim the

moral high ground, least of all a band of defeatist

Klingon exiles. "We intend to survive."

EPETAI Vrag lifted her lip in a civilized

snarl. "Fighting a pointless battle does not add

to your honor. The comets grow more thick daily. The

longer you are here, the greater the likelihood you will be

involved in a large-scale strike." She reached out

with almost prim disapproval and flicked Dax's hand

away from the water jug. "You would better serve

yourselves by accepting the inevitable and preparing your spirits for

their passage, or taking the one soldier you have found

and leaving now." Kira forced herself not to slap

the jug to the floor. "I'm not ready to ignore all

our options just yet." She turned pointedly

to Dax. "Now that the blockade is back, we can't

count on the defiant deflecting any comets away

from the planet." "But the Klingons holding the

hostages--"

"Can't get any help from us if we've broken

cloak and been attacked by Klingons. We'll have

to assume that the comets are going to keep coming. As it

gets darker, we might be able to see them hit the

atmosphere, maybe get a better feel for the

volume and frequency."

"Unfortunately,"

the science officer sighed, "that won't help us

pinpoint the impact zones." Dax lifted her

eyes only a fraction, but Kira knew she'd

made eye contact with the Klingon matriarch still hovering

behind Kira's right shoulder. "We'd be safer if we

moved farther inland. Right now, a major impact in

the ocean could flood this camp." Kira couldn't

help blurting a disbelieving laugh. "We're

fifty kilometers from the ocean!" "Someday, when we

have time," Dax said sweetly, "I'll tell you

all about how tsunamis on twelfth century

Caladaan created coast-to-coast

flood plains on most of their lesser continents."

Kira didn't really care to hear the whole

explanation--the fact that the example existed was

point enough. "What about initiating a physical

search for the survivors? Have we found out anything of

use in your interviews?" Dax shook her head,

sighing. "Even if we knew exactly where to look,

we can't get through the undergrowth unless we use

phasers. And that would take longer than we have."

"What about using the banchory?" Kira had meant

the question to stimulate discussion, not to slap shock through the

gathering like a hand across the face. The Klingons fell

into knife-

sharp silence, every one, and Dax asked, "The "war

wagons?"' Kira, what are you talking about?"

"They're a native animal, four or five

meters tall and built like a runabout. I saw one

outside." She pointed behind her, out the door and

vaguely in the direction of her encounter. "Dax,

you've never seen something plow through brush the way these

things can. We could cover literally kilometers every

hour." Dax turned a questioning look on the

matriarch. "Epetai Vrag...? was she

prompted. Rekan spoke without looking up from her

hands, apparently fascinated with their cords

of muscle and patterns of veins. "Was anyone with

this beast you saw?"

"A girl." Kira tried to decipher the

strange flux of emotion across the old Klingon's

face, only to find herself wondering if every deep

Klingon emotion looked to a Bajoran like anger.

"She said her name was K'Taran." A Klingon so

old that his brow ridge had begun to gnarl huffed with

sour laughter. "Another intractable daughter of

Vrag." Rekan snarled what might have been a

Klingon threat, or perhaps just an animal noise of

anger. It came overlaid with a memory of a young

girl's voice saying, Grandmother thinks we can do

whatever we want, and a sudden awareness of how

similar two individual faces could be.

"Epetai Vrag," Kira heard herself saying,

almost gently, "is K'Taran your granddaughter?"

Rekan answered almost before the question was finished. "I do

not have a granddaughter."

"They do not cease to exist simply

because you

might wish it so." The older male Klingon

who'd spoken before shook off one elder's grasping

hand, and aimed a backhanded swing at another. The

epetai composed her face into a haughty

mask that might almost have been convincing if not for the

anguish in her eyes. "The young ones who have left us

live and die by their own choosings now. They have chosen

a path that holds no honor and are no longer a

concern to this House."

"They're

a concern to us, if they are the ones who found our

comrades." For about the fiftieth time since beaming

down to Armageddon, Kira wondered how Dax could

maintain such a show of nonjudgmental courtesy when

all KIRA wanted to do was tear stubborn Klingon

heads off. "If you know where they are, tell us, so

we can talk to them and perhaps help them all

survive." Rekan met Dax's gaze with a glare

of challenge, but otherwise gave no sign that she'd

heard much less intended to answer. "Honor

dictated that this House be destroyed," she said

instead. "That could not be avoided, but it was never my

decision. We stand where we are because honor gave us

no choice."

"And because you've agreed to die,

everyone else has to die here with you?" Even

Dax's voice had begun to sharpen with annoyance.

"She does not know where they are." The older male

sniffed at the air as though displeased with the

smell. "None of us knows. They have made themselves

native. They wander the tuq'mor LIKE animals.

Except for the trails from their banchory, we see

nothing of them."

Dax glanced at Kira. "But you said K'Taran

was just here?" Kira nodded. "She thanked us for bringing

in a doctor and said--" The words were barely out of her

mouth before their implication kicked her in the stomach.

Turning slightly away from Dax, away from the

others, she slapped at her comm badge so hard she

was sure it would bruise her palm. "Kira

to Bashir." Furious at her own stupidity, more

furious still at her embarrassment when nothing but

silence echoed back across subspace. "Kira

to Bashir!" Nothing. No doctor, no wayward

Klingon, not even an open channel to hint that

Bashir's communicator still existed. The doctor was

gone. Rekan Vrag was the first to break the silence,

and although there was triumph in her voice, its icy

chill told Kira it wasn't a triumph she was

proud of. "You have given up another hostage," she

said accusingly. "Now do you begin to see what an

abomination is a Klingon without honor?"

CHAPTER 5

BASHIR WASN'T SURE which

irritated him more--being bound and blindfolded like some

sort of political prisoner, or knocking his

head against the floor of his captors' lumbering

vehicle every time it jolted over uneven terrain or

crashed its way through a new stand of underbrush. He

did know that the coil of fear gaining strength at the

pit of his belly only exacerbated the more facile

emotions that lurched to the surface. Fear for the

Victoria adams's still-missing crew; fear for his

two assistants, who shouldn't be abandoned to deal with

so many Klingon casualties on their own; and, yes,

fear for himself at the thought of being separated from his landing

party with a star system full of potential disaster

hanging over all their heads. Being all alone in an

alien scrub forest when a

comet sterilized the ecosystem was not one of his more

romantic visions of a heroic death. He felt the

little flutter of his comm badge's chirp from where his

body weight pinned it against the rocking floor.

Above him, the Klingon whose knee had been in contact

with his back since the beginning of their trip stirred

uneasily, grunting. "Look, this is

ridiculous." Bashir paused, waiting with

muscles tensed for a blow or a shove or a wad of

gag in his mouth to silence him. When none

came, he swallowed hard and disciplined his voice

into something resembling composure. "That's my away

team. If you don't let me talk to them, they'll

just trace my badge signal and find me." A

strong hand snaked beneath him, prying him away from the

floor less roughly than Bashir expected and

plucking the badge from his uniform breast with the same

casual dexterity an entomologist might use

to capture a roving beetle. He thought he felt

his captor shift and spin the way a person did when

flinging a small object, but couldn't very well listen

for the whisper of the badge's flight over the crash and

rumble of their transportation. Fear finally cut its

moorings in his stomach and diffused throughout his system.

"All right. The badge is gone. Fine." Pushing

up with one knee and one elbow, he managed to roll

himself clumsily. If hopelessness had one good

trait, it was that it wasted little time converting fear into the

anger more useful for survival. "Can you please

untie me now?" A grab at the front of his

uniform caught him when he struggled to his knees.

"Sit?

It was the first time anyone had spoken to him since the

girl who'd served as bait lured him into the underbrush

in search of casualties. This voice

sounded suspiciously the same. "Just tell me where

--"

"Sit"

She didn't wait for his compliance this time. Tugging

firmly downward on the front of his tunic, she

clearly meant to muscle him back to the floor, where

he'd spent the first part of this liaison. He

didn't consciously resist--rearing back away from

her grip was no more than an instinctive reaction

against being forcibly placed anywhere when he couldn't

see the world around him. But he knew it was a

mistake the moment his center of gra vity slipped

past thirty degrees. Hands clutched first at his

shoulders, then at his waistband as he tumbled

backward, then disappeared entirely when he hit

free-fall. The ground he landed on was softer than

he'd thought, not to mention much closer to the start of his

fall than it had seemed when he'd first been hauled

up several meters and dumped into the transport's

open bed. It poked and prodded him like a bundle of

sticks, but gave just enough not to pashir expected and

plucking the badge from his uniform breast with the same

casual dexterity an entomologist might use

to capture a roving beetle. He thought he felt

his captor shift and spin the way a person

did when flinging a small object, but couldn't very

well listen for the whisper of the badge's flight over

the crash and rumble of their transportation. Fear

finally cut its moorings in his stomach and diffused

throughout his system. "All right. The badge is gone.

Fine." Pushing up with one knee and one elbow, he

managed to roll himself clumsily. If hopelessness

had one good trait, it was that it wasted little time converting

fear into the anger more useful for survival. "Can you

please untie me now?" A grab at the front of

his uniform caught him when he struggled to his

knees. "Sit?

It was the first time anyone had spoken to him since the

girl who'd served as bait lured him into the underbrush

in search of casualties. This voice sounded

suspiciously the same. "Just tell me where--"

"Sit"

She didn't wait for his compliance this time. Tugging

firmly downward on the front of his tunic, she

clearly meant to muscle him back to the floor, where

he'd spent the first part of this liaison. He

didn't consciously resist--rearing back away from

her grip was no more than an instinctive reaction

against being forcibly placed anywhere when he couldn't

see the world around him. But he knew it was a

mistake the moment his center of gravity slipped

past thirty degrees. Hands clutched first at his

shoulders, then at his waistband as he tumbled

backward, then disappeared entirely when he hit

free-fall. The ground he landed on was softer than

he'd thought, not to mention much closer to the start of his

fall than it had seemed when he'd first been hauled

up several meters and dumped into the transport's

open bed. It poked and prodded him like a bundle of

sticks, but gave just enough not to puncture anything.

Springy vibrations sketched frantic movement all

around him, but it was the young girl's voice--"Get

aside! Humans are fragile--let him breathe!"

--that surprised him the most. Perhaps he wasn't such

an insignificant prisoner after all. Thin, rough

fingers picked at the bindings on his wrists, the knot

at the base of his skull cinching his blindfold

into place. He squinted hard against the light--

Oh, God, it's only barely morning back

home! --and blinked focus into the ring of faces

crouched around him. For one instant, the term "going

native" meant a little more to him than it ever had before.

Then he realized that none of the muzzled, grayish

faces bending over him were Klingons, and it relieved

his confusion at least a little. Their eyes

seemed big only in comparison to the smallness of their

other features, muddy green and curious above a

button rodent-nose and a mouth so tiny that it

announced "insectivore" even before the first of them

rolled out a long, prehensile tongue to swipe at

its corneas. Bashir thought he might be able

to scoop one up under either arm--they couldn't have massed

more than fifteen kilos apiece--but they probably

didn't need his help to move about their native

environment. They ran on all fours like lemurs,

their slim question-mark tails lifted playfully over

their backs. The grace with which they navigated the

upper storys of dense foliage put a zero-g

dancer to shame. They didn't even scatter or

squawk when the young female Klingon jumped down

into their midst. "Are you damaged?" she demanded of

Bashir, somewhat testily. "I... uh..." He

managed to tear his eyes away from the plushly furred

primates, only to fixate all over again on the

huge, armor-plated monster calmly picking at

whatever brush and limbs it could reach. It had smashed

an impressive trail through the knotted undergrowth

without even breaking a sweat; Bashir was suddenly

glad he'd been caught by the foliage canopy and

hadn't toppled all the way to the ground,

another two or three meters down. "Uh...

no..." he finally stammered. A Klingon tthat's

right, there was a Klingon, and he should probably look

at her when he answered instead of staring at her

strange menagerie. "No, I'm fine, thank

you..."

"Good." She clapped both hands to the front of his

uniform, then hauled him very carefully to his feet,

as though afraid he might break if she dropped

him again. "Then will you behave?" Bashir hazarded a

glance to left and right. Except for the winding trail

torn like a scar through the brush cover, there was nothing

to see except kilometer upon kilometer of

undulating, scrubby plain. As though the plants

had clawed their way a half-dozen meters above the

ground and re-created their own surface beyond the touch of

mud and burrowing creatures. Even though a loose,

light foliage above them shielded most of the humid

undergrowth from the sun, Bashir couldn't glimpse so

much as a hint of the massive trees that had marked the

perimeter of the Klingon's camp. "Will you behave?"

the girl asked again, more loudly. How many days would it

take people on foot to cross the same terrain this

creature had traveled in an hour? "Yes," he

admitted faintly. "Yes... I guess

I will."

The big herbivore was more comfortable to ride than

Bashir expected. More comfortable than when he'd thought

its broad back was the floor of a land-going truck,

at least, and he'd been forced to endure every bump and

thump and rattle. He knelt just aft of the great

beast's shoulders the way the girl showed him, tucking

his heels beneath him and being careful to keep all body

parts clear of where its bony skull ridge

scissored against the plates on its back when it

moved its head. The rocking of its big, slow steps

proved almost soothing now that he could see where he was

going and move his body to compensate. It pushed through the

snarl of plant life with such unhurried power that

Bashir smiled slightly in awe. One ponderous

step at a time, chin lifted above the froth of

greenery, casually splintering thickets and trampling

bracken like a ship smashing through Arctic ice. It

didn't even seem to notice the schools of

primates capering alongside it, dolphins in the

wake of a great whale. Bashir twisted to look at

the silent girl behind him. "This... animal!"

"They're called banchory."

This was the first word she'd spoken that wasn't in

Standard. The unconscious data

collector at the back of his brain noted this as an

interesting detail, even though nothing about it really

seemed to mean anything. "These banchory, then. I

saw some of their carcasses when we first beamed down,

back on the beach near Gordek's camp."

Feeling the life and majesty in the animal under him

only made that memory all the more horrific.

"They're CLEARLY not Klingon in origin. I

hadn't realized you'd had time to domesticate anything

on Armageddon." The girl still didn't look at

him, her eyes trained forward as though guiding the

banchory with her own sight. "The Klingons have

domesticated nothing here. The banchory belong to the

xirri."

"The...? was He broke off the question when she

swept a gesture toward the rear of their mount. No

point trying to turn any further without standing--he'd

only tip himself off the banchory again. Besides, he

had a feeling he knew what she'd meant

to indicate. They surrounded the banchory like

monkey-tailed butterflies. The slender, silent

primates snatched handfuls and tonguefuls of bugs

from the air as the banchory shook the undergrowth with its

passage. Once or twice, a bevy of what

appeared to be adolescents bounced

eagerly up from below with forelimbs full of broken

nuts and shattered seed pods. Bashir couldn't

tell if it was insects their agile tongues probed

for among those broken pieces, or pulverized bits

of plant meat to complement the rest of their diet.

Whichever it was, they hardly looked the role of

master banchory trainers as they chased after swarms of

disturbed lizards and jumped for escaping flies. More

like ramoras, taking advantage of some greater

creature's impact on the world. It didn't seem

an observation worth sharing, considering his situation.

Looking behind him, he offered his hand over his left

shoulder and tried on one of his more charming smiles.

"By the way, I'm Dr. Julian Bashir. I

thought you might like to know who you were kidnaping."

"I know." But, to his surprise, she still

took his hand and shook it with solemn gusto.

"K'Taran."

"Of the House

of Vrag? A flush of warm magenta darkened her

face, and she gnashed her teeth quietly. "Of the

House of me."

"I see..." That seemed as good an end to that round

of discussion as any. Shifting himself to look forward

again, Bashir watched the world dip and sway

in time with the banchory's ground-eating strides.

"Might I ask where we're going?"

"You're a doctor," K'Taran said bluntly

in his ear. "We have wounded." His first thought was to question who

exactly "we" might be. Then he caught a

flash of velvet khaki out of the corner of his eye,

as three playful xirri raced past in some kind of

game, and he thought perhaps he already knew.

"K'Taran..." He glanced away from the bobbing

horizon, wanting to look back at her but unsure

if she'd appreciate his scrutiny. "You realize

there's a very good chance everything on this planet--xirri

and banchory included--will be dead in just another few

days?" He almost thought he fel t the chill of her

denial sweep its way up his spine. But perhaps it was

just the threat of imminent rain that seemed to hang on every

dew-damp leaf they passed. "Klingons don't

cease to fight just because the odds are hopeless."

"I'm

sure that's true. But the crash victims you've

been holding hostage aren't a part of your fight.

If you let us evacuate them, I'm sure we can

make arrangements to take anyone else who--"

"My grandmother will

never let anyone go." For just that moment,

she sounded like a little girl--petulant, angry,

despairing for something she'd hoped for from her adults

but never gotten. "Besides," she continued in a more

defiant tone, "my shield-mates and I would never

leave without the xirri. They're our

friends. Like your scientists, they took no honor

promise to die." Neither did i. Bashir wanted

to tell her. But a roll of distant thunder distracted

him, and a vision of tragedy swirled up from the forest

floor to swallow his thinking before he could recapture

his train of thought. Despite the unchanging nature

of the planet's overgrown surface, the site of the

devastation somehow snuck up on them when Bashir

wasn't ready to see it. Naked, burn-scarred

limbs jutted out over a wasteland of mud,

charcoal, and blackened bone The brush was singed well

beyond this terminal edge; it hadn't been easy to see

amid the normal mix of woody scrub and

needlelike leaves, but now Bashir recognized the

sere of heat so intense it had razed a vast patch of

forest down to stubble. The local plants had already

begun to fight their way backm faster-growing and more

tenacious even than Britain's notorious heather.

A furry blush of green laid an inch-high

carpet over stubble, stones, and half-dead

brush. Rather than renewing the desolation, though, it

served instead to highlight the great emptiness. As though

someone had thrown a hasty blanket over the

corpses in the hopes no one would recognize the

outlined forms. The banchory brought them some distance

into the wasteland. Its heavy steps hushed to a

negligible crunching over the baby growth, but it

filled the void with a low groaning that sounded almost like

sobs. Anthropomorphizing, Bashir realized.

It only greeted the pod of other banchory milling

near a confusion of

upthrust stones; they answered in equally

loquacious murmurs, waggling their flexible upper

lips and swishing the stubs of their hairless tails.

It was a hard image to shake, though, when he

glimpsed what looked like a half-filled inland sea

another kilometer or two toward the horizon.

Peaty brown water gushed into it from all sides,

waterfalls of runoff from the mud underlying a continent

of canopy. Bashir doubted there could ever be enough

to fill the void. "Have you been living here?" he

asked K'Taran as she climbed past him to slide

down the banchory's nose. "No." She waved him

down, holding out her arms the way a parent might when

preparing to catch a child at the end of a

slide. "But we came when they needed us." The

banchory's nose was as solid as the rest of it, and

it hardly seemed to notice his weight as he shuffled

down it. Mud, slick and swimming with ash, belched

up around his ankles when he landed, and he added

another couple of days to a search party's travel

time. Assuming, of course, anyone had a chance to come

looking for him at all. They slogged toward a long

row of shelters at the edges of the destruction. Long,

stiff fans of greenery had been stacked across what

remained of the undergrowth's canopy, pitiful

protection from both sun and rain. The cadre of

Klingons milling among the injured xirri tested and

reinforced the structure almost unconsciously as they

went about their duties. A deeper mat of branches

had been piled directly on top of the mud to form a

crude bedding for the wounded. Bashir

reassured himself that they'd at least tried to keep

their patients above the mire, if not strictly out of the

elements. This was a great show of consideration for

Klingons, if what he'd seen at Gordek's

camp was any indication. "How did you know they needed

you?" He dropped to his knees on the edge of the

branch carpet, not wanting to actually walk on the

mat and spread muck among the wounded.

"Did the xirri send for you?" A pair of Klingon

men--neither much older than K'Taran--glanced up from

a few feet away, but it was K'Taran who finally

answered. "We knew they had a home near here.

Once Kreveth realized what had happened, we

knew the xirri would be needing help. So we

came." She remained standing behind him, out of both his

light and way. Even so, Bashir could feel

defiance rolling off her like heat. "I told you before

--they're our friends." Indeed she had. He decided

not to press the question further. A xirri appeared with his

medkit, dropping out of the brush's fringes like a bird

hopping off a branch. Bashir thanked the little

primate absently, and didn't even think about

blushing until after he'd cracked the case and dug

out his tricorder and one of the smaller tissue

regenerators. It wasn't as though K'Taran would

laugh at him for such a display of automatic

courtesy. In fact, she was probably delighted

to see him apparently taking her pronouncements so

seriously. Still, he didn't want to lie to her, not

even by implication. What he saw in front of him

was a thin,

sick lemur with no more evidence of sentience in its

expressionless face than there was in its

prehensile tail. It didn't change his

willingness to help it in any way he could, but it also

didn't distract him from the awareness that there were

perfectly sapient creatures hidden somewhere in this

jungle who also desperately needed saving. He was

almost halfway through the medical tri-corder's

primary scan when he realized that nothing about the

readings made any sense. Frowning, he

reinitialized the sequence and passed it over the

xirri's unmoving body again. K'Taran waited

until he aborted that scan altogether before demanding,

"What's wrong?" Something about being so close to an

impact site, probably. Interference on a

level Dax could no doubt explain, but which left

him only with a kit full of half-useless equipment

and not even a suspicion of how to fix it. All the

same, he punched up the tricorder's

recalibration command. "Something's the matter with my

equipment," he explained, not looking up from the

growing scroll of gibberish on the small device's

screen. "I'm not getting intelligible readings."

"Fine."

She suddenly bent close over one shoulder and

plucked the tricorder from his hand. "Then you can stop

playing with your toys and start helping them."

Bashir stopped himself from attempting to snatch back

the device, scowling up at her instead. "It's not that

simple. I don't know anything about xirri

physiology. Unless I can collect data on

how their bodies

function, I can't determine what drugs they can

tolerate, or what treatments they might require.

I don't even know how to calibrate a tissue

regenerator!"

"The xirri will tell you if what you're doing is

right." Frustration throbbed dully at the back of his

forehead. He hunched over and rubbed at his eyes,

suddenly wanting to be home and safe and sleeping in

his own Cardassian bed with no Klingons or alien

lemurs to worry about. "K'Taran," he sighed.

"Can the xirri even speak?" He hadn't heard a

sound from them. Not even so much as a grunt.

K'Taran verified this observation with a simple,

"They make no noise at all." Of course they

didn't--speech, language, true

communication... It would all make things too easy,

too straightforward for this mission. "They're

monkeys," Bashir heard himself saying. The sound of

his voice wrapped around those words almost shocked him.

"However close you've grown to them, whatever

feelings they might have for you, it's not the same as

language. You can't run on your own instincts and

call it communication." He looked up, expecting

to see fury on her face, and added sincerely,

"I'm sorry." She stared back at him, a

surprising amount of weary frustration in her own young

features. Waving brusquely at the xirri who'd

first approached with the medkit, she fished into her

pocket without saying so much as a word. The skinny

primate flashed over to her, green eyes intent, and

K'Taran flipped a small polygonal token

toward it with a flick of her thumb.

The xirri caught it with its tongue, then spatthe

chip into one naked palm. It looked like something

broken off a seal of pressed wax, or chipped from

a larger stone. Popping the token back into its mouth,

the xirri leapt into the burned-out brush and disappeared.

Curiosity burned sleepily in his eyes, but

Bashir had learned better than to ask for what

K'Taran hadn't volunteered. He sat with the

remnants of his medkit, and waited. By the time the

xirri returned, sitting still had combined with the

abysmal lateness of the hour shipboard to sink

Bashir almost over the brink into dozing. He thought at

first that he'd imagined the xirri's

multicolored companion, a nonsense dream

caricature brought to life. But when it approached

to within touching distance, he could smell the musky plant

life odor of the pollen scrubbed into its fur, and

see the sheen of drying wetness among the crust of

colored muds striped over its skull and face and

shoulders. The painted xirri squatted into a tall

sit that placed it almost on a height with Bashir, and

peered intently first at the doctor's hands, then the

insensate patient on the grassy mat before them.

K'Taran slapped a tissue regenerator

into Bashir's lap. "Go on, healer. Heal." It

was pointless. Bashir knew it was pointless--he was

too tired, the xirri was too badly injured, and

he just didn't have time to learn everything he needed to know

to be an adequate physician to these animals.

But even if he could find it in his hea rt to deny

treatment while there was some small chance he could give

relief, he had a feeling K'Taran and the other

Klingons now gathering around her wouldn't have

much patience with his ethical standards. Hadn't he

said everything on the planet would be dead in a matter

of days, no matter what they did here? So what

real difference did it make if even his best efforts

couldn't save a single xirri? His best

efforts couldn't save any of them. He had to depend

on Dax and the captain for that. He examined the little

xirri in front of him as best he could by touch and

sight, making assumptions about its body chemistry

based on such slight evidence as the condition of its

mucal membranes, the color of its blood. Where

muscle showed beneath folds of torn derreal layer,

he probed the elasticity with gentle fingers,

pretended its ropes and striations told him anything

really useful. Then he set the regenerator with a

few tentative taps at the controls. He'd

barely turned the head of the device toward his

patient before the painted xirri next to him reached out

and wound cool fingers about his wrist. Bashir

hesitated, switched off the regenerator by reflex,

and blinked down at the little primate. Licking its

eyes in what might have been agitation, the painted

xirri abruptly ducked one long finger into the

pucker of its mouth and brought it out smeared with the same

colored pollen that tinted its hair. It drew

slowly, lightly around the edges of the wound.

Brilliant red on the innermost edges, followed

by rings of saffron and umber shot through with smears of

green. Apparently happy with whatever it had meant

to convey, it settled back on its

haunches with a final flick of its long tongue, and

cocked an unreadable look up at Bashir.

He didn't know what else to do--the pounding of his

heart against his breastbone seemed to drown out rational

thought, leaving him to flounder in emotion. He reset the

device almost at random, moved toward the patient

again. This ti had a feeling K'Taran and the other

Klingons now gathering around her wouldn't have

much patience with his ethical standards. Hadn't he

said everything on the planet would be dead in a matter

of days, no matter what they did here? So what

real difference did it make if even his best efforts

couldn't save a single xirri? His best efforts

couldn't save any of them. He had to depend on

Dax and the captain for that. He examined the little

xirri in front of him as best he could by touch and

sight, making assumptions about its body chemistry

based on such slight evidence as the condition of its

mucal membranes, the color of its blood. Where

muscle showed beneath folds of torn derreal layer,

he probed the elasticity with gentle fingers,

pretended its ropes and striations told him anything

really useful. Then he set the regenerator with a

few tentative taps at the controls. He'd

barely turned the head of the device toward

his patient before the painted xirri next to him reached

out and wound cool fingers about his wrist. Bashir

hesitated, switched off the regenerator by reflex,

and blinked down at the little primate. Licking its

eyes in what might have been agitation, the painted

xirri abruptly ducked one long finger into the

pucker of its mouth and brought it out smeared with the same

colored pollen that tinted its hair. It drew

slowly, lightly around the edges of the wound.

Brilliant red on the innermost edges, followed

by rings of saffron and umber shot through with smears of

green. Apparently happy with whatever it had meant

to convey, it settled back on its haunches with a

final flick of its long tongue, and cocked an

unreadable look up at Bashir.

He didn't know what else to do--the pounding of his

heart against his breastbone seemed to drown out rational

thought, leaving him to flounder in emotion. He reset the

device almost at random, moved toward the patient

again. This time when the xirri stopped him, it was already

busy accentuating the ugly green, blotting out the

saner colors with bold, hectic strokes.

Bashir adjusted the regenerator in the other

direction; the xirri didn't interfere again. As he

watched bundles of muscle gradually

repair, and skin begin its slow crawl across the open

wound, it occurred to Bashir that it was probably best

that his main diagnostic equipment had failed him for the

moment, limiting what treatment he could supply. The

way his hands were shaking, he wouldn't have been safe

doing surgery, anyway. And even the most newly

recognized sentient species--no matter how

silent and unassuming--deserved better than the

jitterings of a shell-shocked Human doctor.

Sisko's luck held for four of the five hours

he'd allotted himself for sleep. His dreams roiled

uneasily with cloaked Klingon vessels that turned

out to be Cardassian warships hurling comets at the

Defiant. When Odo's gravelly voice

condensed out of one thunderous collision, Sisko at first

burrowed deeper into his pillow and tried to ignore

it. "Captain Sisko, report to the bridge,"

Odo repeated impatiently. "There's a

Cardassian vessel entering this system."

"Damn!" Sisko rolled out of his

bunk, still feeling

trapped in the remnants of his nightmare. He

yanked on his uniform and boots. "Have the Klingons

done anything to it yet?"

"No, but they may

just be biding their time. The Cardassian ship is still

out of weapons range."

"I'm on my way." He headed for the door without

waiting for an acknowledgment. Worf met him in the

narrow corridor bisecting the crew's quarters,

looking much more alert than Sisko felt. They

strode into the turbolift and told it, "Bridge!"

in curt unison. The lift hummed upward.

"Any news from the away team?" he asked his

tactical officer. Worf slanted him a curious

glance. "You were aware that I had the away team's

secure channel routed to my cabin?"

"Just a lucky guess. What have you

heard?"

"Little of promise," the Klingon said somberly.

"Dr. Bashir was discovered missing after Commander

Dax last spoke with us. They have a fix on his comm

badge and are looking for him now, but Dax

estimates it could take several hours to reach his

presumed location."

"How did he

get lost?"

"Unclear, sir. Major Kira believes he

might have been kidnapped by the same group holding the

Victoria Adams's crew."

"Lovely." Sisko scrubbed a hand across his

face, wondering what else could possibly go wrong

on this mission. The turbolift doors hissed open

before he could ask further questions. Odo turned to face

them from his watchful stance

beside the command chair. As far as Sisko knew, the

Changeling never did sit there, even when he was

left in command of the Defiant's bridge. "The

Cardassian ship is preparing to enter the far end of the

cometary belt," Odo said, passing information along with

Starfleet succinctness. Sisko glanced up at the

viewscreen, but Farabaugh's computer model had

been replaced by a real-time image of Armageddon

against a comet-hazed starfield. A blinking red

cursor now marked the position of the cloaked Klingon

vessel, in what looked like a geostationary orbit

above the comet-scarred main continent. "Mr.

Thornton is constructing an approximate sensor

image of the Cardassian vessel, using

preliminary data from our long-range scans."

"Good." Sisko sat and gave an approving

nod to the dark-haired engineering tech who'd

replaced Fara-baugh at the science console.

"Put it on screen when ready."

"Aye, sir. Convergent

resolution coming up now." The viewscreen

abruptly distorted, shrinking Armageddon to a

distant dust-stained globe in the upper corner,

while a steady twinkle in the background enlarged

into a massive battle-armored ship, many times

larger than the Defiant. Sisko whistled when he

saw its familiar military markings. "Looks like

we have some very official Cardassian visitors,"

he remarked. "My data banks identify this ship

as the Cardassian battle cruiser Olxinder,"

Odo said from his console. "Commanded by our friend Gul

Hidret."

"Why am I not surprised?" Sisko

leaned back in his chair, frowning as he watched the

Cardassian ship

enter the comet field. Unlike the Klingons, they

took no evasive action, nor did they appear

to slow and angle their shields to deflect the comets

they encountered. Sisko wondered if Hidret

understood the danger he was in--unlike the small

Defiant and equally small Jfolokh-class

Klingon vessel, the Olxinder was practically

guaranteed to get itself slammed with comets at the speed

it was traveling. A moment later, the blue-white

flare of phasers across the viewscreen

answered his question. Gul Hidret was dealing with the comets

with characteristic Cardassian arrogance, by summarily

shattering to pieces every large fragment in his battle

cruiser's path. Sisko supposed the ship's

heavy armor could take care of the rest. "For someone

who was worried about Klingon aggression, he's not

exactly trying to sneak in, is he?" Odo

commented. "No," Worf agreed. "I thought Gul

Hidret did not believe us when we said there were no

Klingons here." Sisko shook his head. "Commander,

I've found that what Cardassians say they

believe and what they truly believe have about as much in

common as Ferengi prices do with the true value of

an object." He watched the Olxinder execute

a gracelessly efficient turn, its corona of

phaser fire leaving an afterglow of superheated

gases in its wake. "But then why come? He must know

he cannot locate either of us while we are cloaked,"

Worf pointed out. "Why would Hidret make himself

such a tempting target for attack?"

"Perhaps to provoke us into it,"

Sisko said. Odo snorted. "More likely

to provoke the Klingons into it."

"Thus giving the Cardassians all the excuse

they need to start a war," Sisko finished

grimly. "The Klingons have just opened a hailing

frequency to the Cardassian battleship,

Captain," Thornton said, glancing over his

shoulder. "It's on an open channel." Sisko

exchanged puzzled looks with Worf and Odo. The

last thing he'd expected the Klingons to do was talk

first and shoot later. "Put it on the main screen,

split channel."

"Aye, sir." The phaser-wreathed glow of the

Olxinder vanished, turning instead into Gul

Hidret's furrowed visage on one side and an

even more familiar Klingon face on the other. It

wasn't the magnificent mane of gray hair or

the broad brow that jogged Sisko's memory so much

as the surprising glint of humor in those crinkled

eyes. He snapped his teeth closed on a

surprised curse. What in God's name was

Curzon Dax's old drinking buddy doing out in the

middle of the Cardassian demilitarized zone?

"Ah, Hidret," Kor purred in the same tone

of pleasant reminiscence he might have used to greet

an old lover. "What a joy it is to see your

face and recall once more the delightful memory of

how I demolished your last battle cruiser. How

nice of the Cardassian High Command

to give you another."

"It pleases me, too, Dahar Master

Kor, to see that your legendary drunken stupors

have not cost you all of your titles and privileges in

the Klingon Empire," Hidret shot back with

equally venomous politeness. The old gul's lined

face was rigid with some fierce emotion, but Sisko

couldn't tell whether it was fury or satisfaction.

"Although they have obviously

CONDEMNED you to manning an obscure post in an

unimportant system."

"How

unimportant can it be, when a Cardassian

ship as magnificent as yours drops by to pay a

visit?" Kor retorted. "Although it is a

Klingon tradition to welcome visitors, I'm

afraid you might not like my particular brand of

hospitality." Hidret raised his brows in mock

incredulity. "Are you telling me I have to leave? And

here I thought you would welcome my help in

evacuating the planet."

"What?" All traces of

humor evaporated from Kor's eyes, giving

Sisko a glimpse of the formidable warrior

Jadzia Dax had once been willing

to risk her life for. "What are you talking about?"

A little more satisfaction leaked out around the edges of

Hidret's inscrutable expression. "Aren't there

Klingons stranded down on that planet, being bombarded

by comets? I came to help you rescue them."

Sisko exchanged startled glances with O'Brien and

Worf. "I thought Hidret suspected those

exiles of being planted, to give the Klingons an

excuse to claim the planet." Worf snorted.

"More Cardassian lies."

"More Cardassian lies!" Kor echoed, his

voice a bubbling growl. "I don't know where you

got that information, but it's wrong. No one here needs

to be rescued."

"You're telling me there are no

Klingons on that planet?" The Dahar Master

bared his stained and shattered teeth. "I'm telling you

that no one needs to be rescued. The Klingons on this

planet have chosen their fate, and it is my duty as

a Dahar Master to make sure that no one interferes

with it. It is a matter of honor." Hidret

pointed an accusing finger at the viewscreen. "And you

can make no allowances for the Cardassians who are

dying of ptarvo fever, and need the drug that only this

planet can provide?" Kor snorted.

"Bring me a Cardassian dying of ptarvo fever,

and I'll be glad to let him beam down

to Cha'xirrac to be cured. In the meantime, old

enemy, the only allowance I will make is to let you

turn tail and run before I start firing."

"But--"

"But nothing!" The

Klingon's sudden eruption into a roar made even

Sisko start. "And if you ask one more question, your

answer is going to be a photon torpedo!" Gul

Hidret snorted in apparent disgust, but the

triumphant glint in his eyes made Sisko's

stomach roil in apprehension. He was starting

to suspect why the old Cardassian had engineered this

unlikely confrontation. "From you or from your ally?"

"Ally?" Kor demanded. "The cloaked

Starfleet vessel we spoke to several hours

ago. Her transmission originated from within this

system."

"You spoke to a cloaked Starfleet vessel?"

Kor's eyes narrowed. "That means the Defiant

is here."

"And they didn't even

bother to inform you?" Gul Hidret showed his own

teeth in a maliciously triumphant

smile. "How rude of them--" A photon

torpedo explosion slammed across the open channel,

and the Cardassian's smile vanished. "All right,

I'm leaving, damn you! Stop shooting!"

Hidret's side of the connection sizzled and went

black, but Kor's scowling face didn't vanish

with it. "I know you're listening in on this, Benjamin

Sisko. If not, then Dax probably is.

Take my advice, both of you, and follow that old

Cardassian fool out of this system. If you

don't, I'm afraid I will be honor-bound

to hunt you down and kill you."

CHAPTER 6

"Now I KNOW why they call this stuff

tuq'mor." From several feet above Dax's

headmwhich was currently at the same elevation as her

feet, although none of her was actually on the ground--

Kira peered down through the tangled vegetation at

her. Even higher up, an eerily silent troop of

lemur-like primates leaped and skittered through the

swaying twigs of the scrub forest, spattering them with

dislodged rain drops and pollen. "What does

tuq'mor mean, anyway?" Kira asked, her tone

so carefully measured that Dax knew she was trying

hard not to laugh. "It's the name of an

ancient Klingon goddess. Also known as the mother of

curses." Her rump-first fall into a pocket of

weaker branches had left Dax

suspended in a position too jackknifed

to scramble out of. Even though she was surrounded

by thickly grown shrubs and intertwining ivy, their

rain-slick branches gave her nothing to grab

onto. She wriggled a hand down beneath her to see if

she was close enough to the ground to push off. Cool muck

promptly closed around her fingers, soft and clinging as

liquid silk. She cursed in Klingon and wiped

her hand across her damp trousers. "See what I

mean?"

"I'm starting to." Kira reached a hand down

to her through the greenery. "You better let me help you

up."

"Brace

yourself," Dax warned as they locked hands. "My

skeleton alone probably weighs more than you do."

"Never fear. I won't drop you." Kira dug

her boot heels into the braided mat of branches

on which she stood, making it bounce a little beneath her.

She used her smaller weight to advantage, Dax

noticed, leaning back to leverage it into her motion

without overbalancing. With one smooth pull,

she hauled Dax out of her jackknifed spill up

to stand beside her, then lifted a smug eyebrow.

"Easy as a zero-gee somersault."

"Don't rub it in." Dax snagged an

overhead vine to steady herself, feeling the branches

creak and sag beneath her weight. Now that she was upright

and free, she had time to notice the welt of smarting

skin on her cheek where a branch had slapped her

during her fall. "I'm already jealous that you can walk

across branches I break."

"Sorry." Kira took a backward step

to ease the load on the swaying tuq'mor. "Maybe

you better go first

from now on, to make sure the branches can hold

you."

"I probably

should." Ever since they had entered the maze of

vegetation, they had been forced to walk anywhere from one

to three meters above the densely forested ground

level, with another meter or two of shrubbery making

an interlaced canopy overhead. The air inside the

tuq'mor was shadowed and cool, mist-filled in

places, and always soundless. No vagrant breeze

could stir the densely knotted branches of this

ecosystem. It reminded Dax of a coral

reef, braced to withstand the crashing of unseen waves.

"Although that means we'll be going even slower."

Kira glanced up at the place where the leaves

glowed brightest, backlit by unseen sunlight.

"We're only making about half a kilometer an

hour through this stuff as it is. Another hour or two

shouldn't matter. At this rate, we're not going

to catch up with Dr. Bashir until sometime next

week." Dax tapped a familiar command into her

tricorder, then frowned as she compared the response

it gave her with previous readouts. "No, we're

getting much closer. According to Julian's comm badge,

he's located just a few hundred meters northeast

of us." Kira must have heard the worry beneath her words.

"His readings haven't changed at all?"

"No." Dax pushed

onward through the tangled branches, trying not to think

of all the ominous reasons for that consistency. More

to herself than to Kira, she said, "If these Klingon

children really are trying to protect the whole planet,

they have no reason to hurt Julian. They could have

taken him to tend to some wounded survivors--"

"But Boughamer said he was the only one badly

hurt," Kira reminded her. More rain drops

dappled down from the forest canopy, stirring

up shreds of mist from the swamp below. Tiny, silent

lizards leaped through the leaves to escape Dax's

progress, jeweled flashes in the shadowy light.

"Didn't you say, though, that K'Taran herself was

hurt?"

"No, I said she

looked hurt," Kira said, gloomily. "She

had a bloody bandage wrapped around one leg. But

that might have been as much a lie as the rest of what she

said." Dax slanted a curious look back through the

greenery at her. "Did she really lie to you,

Nerys? I thought you said she admitted to being epetai

Vrag's granddaughter."

"She did," the Bajoran admitted

with grudging fairness. "And mostly what she

talked about was how she didn't think there was any

honor in killing the banchory. Or in waiting around

for the comets to hit. I suppose she was telling the

truth about that, too." Kira snorted. "She's at

least fighting to survive syl-shessa, instead of just

folding her hands and getting sanctimonious about it.

I might not like how she's doing it, but I have to give

her credit for trying." Dax shook her head at her

friend's exasperated comment. She should have known that

Kira, former freedom fighter and

military officer, would find more to admire in

K'Taran's active resistance to death than in

Rekan Vrag's honorable acquiescence to it.

"There are as many codes of honor among the

Klingons as there are interpretations of Prophecies

among the vedeks," she informed the Bajoran. "By not

lying to you when she kidnaped Bashir, K'Taran

may have been obeying her own code. But, in a larger

sense, by struggling to evade the justice meted out by the

High Council, in her epetai's eyes she has

dishonored their house."

"And was Chancellor Gowron being

honorable when he exiled the House of Vrag

to certain death on this planet?" Kira demanded.

"Possibly." Dax felt the branches below her

thin out over a more watery stretch of swamp, and

angled to the left to find more secure footing.

Another troop of primates skittered out of a

flowering hedge as she skirted it, their velvet-plush

shoulders freckled with colorful blossoms and

pollen dust in an unconscious imitation of

Trill freckling. "What a Klingon considers

honorable depends as much on context as on

precedent. Depending on what infraction the House

of Vrag committed, this sentence of exile

might have been vindictive, or it might have been an

act of mercy." Kira heaved a sigh. "I'll

never understand Klingons."

"And they'll never understand us," Dax smiled.

"They find our Vulcan and Human and Trill

codes of law almost totally incomprehensible, because

they're meant to apply no matter what the motive

or result." She paused to map a path across an

almost-open stretch of running water before she trusted

her weight to the arching branches. "I can understand

epetai Vrag and I can even understand her

granddaughter. The only Klingon here I find hard

to decipher is Gordek." "Really?" Kira

leaped through the screen of DELICATE branches to land

on the other side, if her wildly swaying perch on

a flexing limb could really have been called a landing.

Her athletic ease was all the more enviable because it was

totally unconscious. "What's so hard to figure

out about him? He's a petty tyrant who wants

to start his own little empire, even if it's only going

to last until the next tsunami levels the

coast."

"True." Dax ventured out at last on the

largest bridging limb. "But the fact that he was

willing to bargain with us to get the equipment

he wanted--" The wood cracked ominously beneath her

weight as she reached the end. Dax cursed and took

a long, not entirely directed step across the cooler

breeze of the stream chasm with its murmur of hovering

insects, then found herself sinking through bracken like a

turbolift descending. A small hand reached out and

caught her, this time by the indestructible nape of her

Starfleet tunic, and hauled her back to safe

footing for a second time. "Thanks," she said,

regaining her breath. "Damn tuq'mnor."

"Mother of curses," Kira reminded her.

"Maybe we should have made a sacrifice to her before

we started chasing after Bashir."

"Or maybe we should have followed that banchory

trail, even though it didn't seem to lead in the right

--" Dax broke off abruptly. She'd found an

open crevice through the hedge wall and thrust her head

and shoulders through it, only to emerge into an

unexpected chasm in the tuq'mor. It looked as

if someone had taken a phaser and carved a canyon

through the

dense vegetation one meter wide, four meters

high and stretching out of sight along its sinuous

length. Coppery gold sunlight slanted down

into it, warm and inviting. She cursed again,

long and hard this time. "What is it?" Kirstand

epetai Vrag and I can even understand her

granddaughter. The only Klingon here I find hard

to decipher is Gordek." "Really?" Kira

leaped through the screen of DELICATE branches to land

on the other side, if her wildly swaying perch on

a flexing limb could really have been called a landing.

Her athletic ease was all the more enviable because it was

totally unconscious. "What's so hard to figure

out about him? He's a petty tyrant who wants

to start his own little empire, even if it's only going

to last until the next tsunami levels the

coast."

"True." Dax ventured out at last on the

largest bridging limb. "But the fact that he was

willing to bargain with us to get the equipment he wanted

--" The wood cracked ominously beneath her weight as

she reached the end. Dax cursed and took a long, not

entirely directed step across the cooler breeze

of the stream chasm with its murmur of hovering insects,

then found herself sinking through bracken like a turbolift

descending. A small hand reached out and caught her,

this time by the indestructible nape of her Starfleet

tunic, and hauled her back to safe footing for a

second time. "Thanks," she said,

regaining her breath. "Damn tuq'mnor."

"Mother of curses," Kira reminded her.

"Maybe we should have made a sacrifice to her before

we started chasing after Bashir."

"Or maybe we should have followed that banchory

trail, even though it didn't seem to lead in the right

--" Dax broke off abruptly. She'd found an

open crevice through the hedge wall and thrust her head

and shoulders through it, only to emerge into an

unexpected chasm in the tuq'mor. It looked as

if someone had taken a phaser and carved a canyon

through the

dense vegetation one meter wide, four meters

high and stretching out of sight along its sinuous

length. Coppery gold sunlight slanted down

into it, warm and inviting. She cursed again, long and

hard this time. "What is it?" Kira demanded,

wriggling through the dense hedge to pop out just to Dax's

left. "Blood of the Prophets!"

"Mother of curses," Dax said

again, wryly, then hauled herself free of the hedge and

clambered down to the open path. It was floored by the

same silk-soft mud as the rest of the tuq'mor, but

her boots sank only a few centimeters in before

they hit firmer soil. The banchory had

compacted this forest highway as well as blazed it.

She cocked her head, listening to the distant, deep

hooting that echoed up the path. "If we follow this

now, we might have to make a real quick exit."

Kira landed beside her with a squishy thump, oblivious

to the spatters of mud that threw across both her and

Dax. "Will it take us to Bashir's comm signal?"

Dax consulted her tricorder and nodded. "Yes,

it's the perfect heading from here. Almost too

perfect..." Kira glanced over her shoulder,

squinting against the sun. "You think it's a trap?"

"I don't know." Dax kept her tricorder

on as they walked, watching their mapped coordinates

get closer and closer to the ones she was receiving from

Bashir's comm badge. "But it's definitely not a

coincidence." She skirted a large pile of

olive brown banchory droppings. Their

half-sweet, half-fetid alien smell was so

strong in the still air that she knew they had to be

recent. "Wait." She grabbed at Kira's

shoulder to stop

her, then swung around with the tricorder chirping a

proximity alert at her, louder and louder. "According

to this, Julian should be within a meter of us. It looks

like the signal's coming from the wall of

tuq'mor over there." Kira scowled and began

yanking apart the thick stems of succulents, ivy, and

shrubs, trying to find a place wide enough to step through.

The tuq'mor seemed thicker along the edges of the

banchory trail, almost as if it was defending itself

against further inroads by the massive animals. When

the Bajoran finally found a gap wide enough

to squeeze through, however, the shadowy interior looked

just as pristine as the rest of the scrub forest. There was

absolutely no sign of Bashir, alive or

dead. Dax fought her way into the dense vegetation,

then glanced down at her tricorder and frowned. The

two sets of map coordinates were now dead-on, but

her proximity display still insisted she was a meter

away from where the comm signal was originating. "I'm

reading a vertical discrepancy," she said,

puzzled. "Julian's comm badge must be at least

a meter up from here."

"Or down." Kira slanted a grim

look at the wet muck of the tuq'mor, now only

a few centimeters beneath their feet. The interwoven

mat of shrubbery above it looked undisturbed.

"Although it doesn't look like anything's been buried

here."

"No." Dax

tilted her head back, peering up at the maze of

branches above their heads. "Here, you hold the

tricorder." Kira took it reluctantly. "I

can climb up there more easily than you can--"

"i'm not climbing." Dax flexed her knees,

then leaped upward, catching hold of the two largest

branches within reach and shaking them with all her

considerable weight. The entire forest canopy creaked

and flexed under her assault, sending a scurry of

tiny gleaming lizards out in all directions. One

of the jeweled glitters didn't leap, however. It

fell straight down from the branches, half a meter

too far away for Dax to catch. Fortunately, quick

Bajoran reflexes sent Kira diving after it before

Dax could even open her mouth to shout. A mat of

intertwined ivy strands bounced beneath the major's

impact, trampolining her back again just as Dax

dropped from her precarious overhead hold. They

collided hard enough to elicit mutual grunts, but

Kira's fingers never unclenched from around her catch.

"Is it--?" Dax demanded, steadying her companion.

"Yes." Kira rebalanced herself in the tangled

tuq'mor, then uncurled her fingers to show Dax the

gleam of gold and silver from the Star fleet

communicator pin. The frantic chirping

of the tricorder confirmed that it was Bashir's. "And it

looks like it was at just the right height to have been tossed

off a bangory."

From the first moment he'd seen the Defiant,

Sisko had loved it for its surprising combination of

cheetah speed and leonine power, purebred

sleekness and alley cat durability. However, the

one thing he had to admit his ship didn't have was

space. Where a larger starship like the Saratoga

boasted a wardroom for

conferences and planning sessions, he had to make do

with a bridge where veteran command officers mixed with

untested young ensigns and technicians. And when a

renowned Klingon warrior has just announced his

intention to hunt you down and kill you, the last thing a

commander needed was panic among his crew. "Mr.

Thornton," he said, more by way of test than because he

really needed to know, "do we still have a fix on the

cloaked Klingon ship's position?"

"Aye, sir." The junior engineer

glanced over his shoulder, not looking particularly

panicked. "I have the long-range sensors cranked

to maximum sensitivity. Even though the Klingon

ship has reduced its ion emissions to zero and is

modulating its waste heat to match the

planetary infrared spectrum, just like us, we're still

picking up a minute gravitational anomaly along

its extrapolated orbit."

"Enough of an anomaly to link to our weapons

targeting systems, so we can track and fire on the

Klingons?" Odo inquired. "Yes, sir."

Thornton tapped a command sequence into his science

panel. "I can also export my tracking data to the

viewscreen display, if you want."

"Do

it." Sisko watched a fuzzy, computer-generated

halo bloom on the distant curve of

Armageddon's oxide-stained atmosphere, then

glanced over his shoulder as the turbolift doors

hissed open to admit his chief engineer. "We've

got a Klingon Dahar Master on the lookout for

us, Chief. How invisible are we?"

"We've battened every electromagnetic hatch

we've got, from ions to infrared." O'Brien

detoured long

enough to cast a critical look at Thornton's

sensor settings, then gave his young technician an

approving clap on the shoulder before continuing to his own

seat at the empty engineering console. "Providing you

don't want to leap into warp any time

soon, the Klingons shouldn't even be able to prove

we're here."

"How close can we get to their ship without getting

caught?"

"Seventy kilometers, give or take a

few." O'Brien grinned at Sisko's

surprised look. "I did a little retuning on the

shield voltage controls. We're still putting out

some magnetic discharge, but now the polarity is tuned

to look just like the planet's magnet-osphere."

"What about our gravitational field?" Odo

asked. "Can't the Klingons track us the same way

we're tracking them?"

"No," Worf

said, before the chief engineer could reply. "Not unless

they already know where we are. A cloaked vessel cannot

be detected by gravitational signature alone."

"Especially in a system as orbitally

complicated as this one," Thornton added. "The

gravity well's way too bumpy to resolve

individual events unless you already know roughly where

you're looking." "Good." Sisko leaned back in his

command console, as pleased with the coordinated response

of his bridge team as with the information they'd given him.

He thumbed the communicator controls.

"Ensign Farabaugh, how soon do you have us scheduled

to intercept an incoming comet?"

"In a

little over ten minutes, sir. I was just about to alert

you." The junior science officer sounded as tired

as O'Brien looked, his voice scratchy but

confident. "Sorry for the short notice, but we had

to redo half our calculations after that Cardassian

battleship banged its way through the debris

field." "Understood. Are we still scheduled to nudge

that comet off course on the opposite side of the

planet from the Klingons?"

"Aye, sir."

Farabaugh hesitated, and Sisko heard the

murmur of a second voice in the computer room.

"But to get to our intercept point, we're going to have

to pass pretty close to the Klingon ship on at

least one orbit."

"How

close?"

"About one hundred kilometers." Sisko

winced. "My old piloting instructor at the

Academy used to call that kissing distance." He

looked over at O'Brien again. "You're sure the

Klingons won't be able to pick us up?"

"Not unless they have their scanners focused

directly on our position when we pulse the

impulse engines," O'Brien assured him.

"Otherwise, we'll be running on gravitational

forces and momentum. We should slip by like a Ferengi

going through a customs check."

"Then

let's do it." Sisko sat back in his command

chair, listening to the distant whisper of cometary dust

vaporizing off the shields. It occurred to him that the

sound couldn't actually be coming from the ice itself as it

smoked and vanished into empty space. It must be the

internal echo of the shield compensators, constantly

readjusting to keep the voltage gap steady and the

external forces balanced across the ship's hull.

"Course plotted and laid in for minimum impulse

thrust," Worf announced, his deep voice

anomalously loud in the thrumming silence. Sisko

wasn't sure if that was the result of his tactical

officer's tension or his own. "Ten seconds to engine

pulse." "Mark." O'Brien sounded much calmer,

but, then, he was the only one who really knew how

well their waste-heat output blended with the ambient

infrared. "Five, four, three, two... pulse

detected." Sisko could have told him that.

Despite the parsimonious engine firing, designed

to put the cloaked Defiant into the correct orbit

with minimal expenditure of energy, his years as her

commander had attuned him to the little warship's slightest

movements. He felt the shiver of redirected

momentum, subtle as the shifting weight of a baby

asleep in its mother's arms. "New heading?"

"Orbital plane forty-three degrees to spin

axis, rotation thirty degrees from planetary

prime," Worf said with satisfaction. "We are

on the correct heading for comet intercept at the lip

of the gravity well." Sisko glanced over at

Thornton, whose gaze never seemed to waver from his

sensor output. "What about our Klingon

intercept?"

"Still one hundred kilometers, assuming the

Klingons maintain their orbit. Estimated time of

closest passage two-point-five minutes."

"Commander Worf, please lay in potential

course changes to prepare for possible Klingon

detection. Straight attack, evasive attack,

evasive retreat."

"Aye, sir." Sisko swung his chair back

toward O'Brien. "How's the magnetic

signature of our shields holding out?"

"Still

matched to planetary polarity, plus or minus

ten percent. I'm slowly modulating as we

cross the magnetosphere." "Good." Sisko

brushed his gaze across the view-screen, eying the

familiar face of Armageddon with its halo of

cometary debris only long enough to be sure that nothing

had changed. He tapped his communications control

panel. "Farabaugh, any changes in comet

trajectories caused by our new orbit?"

"No, sir. We're traveling far enough inside the

gravity well to be out of range."

"Good," Sisko said again, but he was frowning as he

lifted his hand. That unexceptional answer had left

him with nothing left to do, no occupation to soak up his

surging tension for the final minute of countdown. He

contented himself with drumming his fingers softly on the arm

of his command chair and running through all the possible

battle-plans, should the Klingons somehow detect

their presence. It wasn't that he didn't trust his

chief engineer's camouflage or his chief

tactical officer's piloting skills. But to a

Starfleet officer who'd had ingrained a thousand

kilometers as the minimum undetectability

limit throughout most of his career, the idea of

sliding invisibly past a Klingon bird-of-prey

at one hundred klicks or less fell just short

of requiring divine intervention. "Klingons off the

aft side," said Thornton. His voice was so

quiet and emotionless that it took Sisko a moment

to realize the announcement meant they'd slipped

past. "No sign of ship activity detected from

passive scanning." The Defiant's bridge

murmured with the exhaled breath of her five vastly

relieved officers. No, make that four, Sisko

thought wryly. Odo looked just as

relieved as the rest of them, but the Changeling

didn't have the lungs needed to produce a thankful

sigh. "Estimated time of encounter with comet?" he

asked briskly. After a tense encounter like that, a good

commander knew how to focus his crew's attention on the

next challenge. Otherwise, relief had a way

of turning to distraction. "I am not sure," Worf

said unexpectedly. "I have the orbital course, but

I do not have the exact coordinates of the comet copied

to my piloting console." Sisko frowned.

"Thornton?" The dark-haired engineering tech shook

his head. "Sorry, sir. I can get sensor

readings on all the comets, but I'm not sure which one

Farabaugh's aiming us at." A

frustrated breath trickled out between Sisko's

teeth. Trying to deflect a comet without getting

caught by the Klingons was like trying to leave Quark's

bar without leaving a tip... it seemed easy to do at

first, until you kept getting tangled in one layer

of obstacles after another. Unfortunately, in this

case you couldn't flip a coin to a Ferengi barman

and have the obstacles magically vanish. "Odo, open

an on-line channel to Farabaugh so he can hear us

down in that science lab. O'Brien, I want you and

Osgood to start working on transferring the comet

impact model up to a spare station on the bridge.

And someone find out where that damned comet is!" The words

had no sooner left his mouth than the Defiant

shuddered under a scraping impact. A moment later,

a massive, smoking, black hulk of cometary ice

floated into the main screen's view. One whole

side was sheared freshly white from its contact with the

Defiant's angled shields.

"I hope," said Sisko ominously, "that was the

comet we were supposed to be deflecting. Because if

not..."

"Comet deflection one hundred percent

successful, sir!" The excitement in

Farabaugh's voice echoed brightly across the

open c ommunications channel. "With the momentum added from

sublimation, its new trajectory will take it out

of the debris field entirely."

"Well, there you go." O'Brien looked up from his

shield modulator controls with a mischievous

smile. "All we need is to do that another

hundred-thousand times, and Armageddon will be safe."

Even Sisko felt his lips stretch into a smile

at that image. "By then, most of the Klingons should have

died of old age," he agreed. "Allowing us

to leave the system just in time to collect our pensions."

The stifled spurt of laughter that trickled out of his

communicator panel told him Odo had added a

permanent channel between the bridge and the science lab.

He didn't bother reaching for his panel controls.

"When's our next deflection scheduled for,

Ensign?"

"Not for another forty-five minutes,

sir." There was a pause while two young voices

conferred in a murmur at the other end of the channel.

"With your permission, sir, Osgood and I would like

to grab some breakfast before then."

"Breakfast?" O'Brien

said blankly. "Don't you mean lunch?" Worf

rumbled disagreement from his piloting station.

"According to the ship's chronometer, it is currently

fifteen-twenty hours. Any meal served now would be

classified as supper."

Sisko felt his own stomach growl

uncomfortably. "I don't care what you call it,

anyone who wants some can get it. Just be sure to be

back on station by sixteen-hundred." He sat

back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "We have an

appointment with a comet, and it won't wait for us if

we're late."

By the time they met up with their fourth comet,

Sisko's bridge crew had subversive

interception down to a fine art. "Critical point

coming up at coordinates two-sixty and

four-forty-three mark twenty-nine." Farabaugh

looked up from the makeshift tracking console

O'Brien had rigged from one of the life-support

stations at the back of the Defiant's bridge.

They'd spent the slow hours between comet deadlines

moving both junior science officers back onto the

bridge, streamlining their data transfer

procedures, and perfecting their deflection

maneuvers. Osgood had settled in at the main

computer access panel, where she could concentrate on

the constant adjustments they needed to make in

their cometary impact model, while the Defiant

jockeyed back and forth through the cloud of cometary

debris. Thornton and Odo had adjusted the main

viewscreen's detection parameters,

autoprogramming it to focus on their cometary

targets both before and after impact. So far, their

peripatetic path and jarring encounters with comets

hadn't drawn any unwelcome attention from the

Klingons, although with Kor's ship settled in a stable

equatorial orbit, Sisko feared it was only a

matter of time until one of their intercept points

fell recklessly close to their enemies. In the

meantime, the

constant short-range passes they had to endure

on their unpowered gravitational orbits made the

muscles between Sisko's shoulders harden with

accumulated tension. Worf claimed the additional

challenge of evading detection while deflecting

comets made them better warriors, and even

O'Brien admitted that the adrenaline rush of those

close passes kept him awake and gave him new

motivation as the hours dragged on. Personally,

Sisko thought he could have limped along on the old

motivation--saving Armageddon and all its

inhabitants from mass destructionmfor quite a

while yet. "Time to gravity-well intercept?" he

asked, knowing the routine now by heart. "Twelve

minutes and counting." Osgood swung around at her

computer station, blue eyes somber in her fine-boned

face. "Captain, this comet fragment masses three

kilotons, four times as big as the others we've

intercepted. We're going to have to give it a much

stronger nudge with the shields to deflect it."

"It's

also heading straight-line into the gravity well,"

Farabaugh warned. "There's no curve-back

capture loop at all. We're not going to get a

second chance to bump it if we miss."

"Understood." Worf punched the new

data into his navigational computer, then

transferred the resulting course changes onto the

orbital model of Armageddon Thornton had

inserted in a corner of the main viewscreen. The new

loops added additional frills to the fading lacework

of their past orbits. Sisko narrowed his eyes,

watching the golden target spot that beaded their path

on the third orbit. "Mr. Farabaugh, correct

me if I'm wrong, but it looks like we're

deflecting this comet on the same side of the planet

the Klingons are orbiting."

"We are, sir," the young man admitted. "Due

to this comet's straight trajectory, it was the only

intercept point we could find. But at least we'll

be in the terminus when we do it. The dusk might

help disguise the comet's change in direction."

"Let's hope

so." Sisko glanced across at Worf. "What will

our closest pass to the Klingons be this time?"

"One-hundred-and-twenty-five kilometers," the

tactical officer replied. "Piece of cake,"

said O'Brien. Sisko grunted. "Begin

preparation for course changem" The blinding shock of a

phaser blast across the viewscreen sliced across his

words like a bat'leth. Sisko cursed and leaped

to lean over Odo's shoulder, scanning theld have

limped along on the old motivation--saving

Armageddon and all its inhabitants from mass

destructionmfor quite a while yet. "Time

to gravity-well intercept?" he asked, knowing the

routine now by heart. "Twelve minutes and counting."

Osgood swung around at her computer station, blue

eyes somber in her fine-boned face. "Captain,

this comet fragment masses three kilotons, four

times as big as the others we've intercepted.

We're going to have to give it a much stronger

nudge with the shields to deflect it."

"It's also heading straight-line into the

gravity well," Farabaugh warned. "There's no

curve-back capture loop at all. We're not

going to get a second chance to bump it if we

miss." "Understood." Worf punched the new data

into his navigational computer, then transferred the

resulting course changes onto the orbital

model of Armageddon Thornton had inserted in a

corner of the main viewscreen. The new loops added

additional frills to the fading lacework of their past

orbits. Sisko narrowed his eyes, watching the

golden target spot that beaded their path on the third

orbit. "Mr. Farabaugh, correct me if

I'm wrong, but it looks like we're deflecting this

comet on the same side of the planet the Klingons

are orbiting."

"We are, sir," the young man

admitted. "Due to this comet's straight

trajectory, it was the only intercept point we

could find. But at least we'll be in the terminus when

we do it. The dusk might help disguise the comet's

change in direction."

"Let's hope so." Sisko glanced across at

Worf. "What will our closest pass to the

Klingons be this time?"

"One-hundred-and-twenty-five kilometers," the

tactical officer replied. "Piece of cake,"

said O'Brien. Sisko grunted. "Begin

preparation for course changem" The blinding shock of a

phaser blast across the viewscreen sliced across his

words like a bat'leth. Sisko cursed and leaped

to lean over Odo's shoulder, scanning the

Defiant's shield and systems outputs for

damage. All the indicators were baffiingly

normal. "What the hell did Kor just shoot

at?" he demanded. "As far as I can tell,

absolutely nothing." Odo swept an impatient

hand across his displays. "It looks like the shot went

wide of us by several hundred kilometers. There's

no evidence of impact with any comet fragments,

either."

"Don't tell me they're just shooting in the dark,

hoping to hit us?" O'Brien demanded incredulously.

Worf let out a scornful snort. "The odds against

that are far too high to justify the waste of power. I

would have expected better from a Dahar Master.

Unless he was very, very drunk."

"The odds will get a lot better at a

hundred-and-

twenty-five kilometers distance," Sisko said

grimly. More phaser fire shattered across the

screen. "And Kor only needs one hit

to extrapolate our location and zero in." He

stood and began pacing, even though he knew the motion

couldn't ease the frustrated ache of inactivity between

his shoulders. He needed to be out doing something, going

somewhere--not trapped in this clandestine, cloaked

orbit, unable to move a muscle for fear of

Klingon detection. "All right, gentlemen, time for a

quick command conference. Do we try for deflection and

risk getting shot at by Kor?" Odo gave him a

somber look. "What other options do we have? That

comet isn't going to wait for us to find a safer

orbit."

"We could allow

the impact to occur." Worfs scowl looked as

if it had embedded itself permanently in his massive

forehead, but his voice remained carefully neutral.

"That would allow us to remain at maximum distance from the

Klingon ship." O'Brien threw the Klingon an

astounded look. "But it would break the deal the

hostage-takers offered us--who knows what they would do

to the Victoria Adams crew then? Not to mention that

Julian and Dax and Major Kira will be

left at the mercy of that comet!" Worf's face

darkened. "True. But if we chase this comet to our

death, many others will fall on Armageddon after it.

Should we sacrifice our ability to deflect them

all just to deflect this one?" Odo cleared his

throat, a humanoid habit he'd learned in his

years among solids. "You're assuming the first one

we deflect will be our last? Why? Is Kor so

invincible in battle?"

"The last time I saw Dahar Master Kor,"

said Worf succinctly, "he was a drunken,

reckless, nonsense-spouting old fool. But he was

at one time one of the mightiest warriors of the

Empire. I would not underrate him, even now." A

last flicker of phaser fire stabbed across the

nightside of Armageddon, then the Klingon ship

slid around the planet 's curvature, still firing

randomly into space. Farabaugh glanced over his

shoulder. "Captain, if we're going to deflect that

comet, we've got to move soon. Otherwise, we

won't be able to maneuver into an intercept orbit

at all." Sisko rubbed a hand across his slim

beard, giving in to the frustrated longing for action that

had been building in him since they'd first arrived.

"Commander Worf, lay in course change for

comet intercept. Chief, get our warp engines

on-line and our shields back as close

to battle-ready as you can without losing all magnetic

polarization. Odo, punch a high-security contact

through to the away team. We need to let them know what's

going on."

"Aye, sir," said O'Brien and Worf in

unison. Odo merely punched the order into his

screen, moving so rapidly that Sisko suspected

he'd been practicing the sequence in advance.

"I've got Major Kira now, sir."

"Major," Sisko said without preliminaries.

"Any luck locating Dr. Bashir?"

"No, sir." Sisko could hear the heavy

rattle of rain on leaves all around her, with a

background thrum from some nocturnal creature

chirping despite the downpour. "We followed the

trail of whoever took him as far as we could, but we

never even caught sight of them. If they really are

using the native pachyderms for transport, they can

probably cover nine times the distance we can in a

day."

"Understood." Sisko drummed his fingers on the

arms of his console, wrestling with the decision he had

to make. "Major, I want you to return

to the main Klingon camp," he said at last. "If

the hostage-takers decide to contact you or

to release any of the survivors, that's where they'll

expect you to be." He heard the breath Kira

drew in, even through the sound of distant thunder.

"You're expecting a comet to fall?" she guessed.

"But the hostage-takers--"

"--c't keep Kor from

finding us sooner or later, so long as we keep

bouncing comets away right under his nose," Sisko

finished. For a moment, all he heard in response

was rain and chirping. "What about the survivors from the

Victoria Adams?" Kira asked at last.

"And Dr. Bashir?" Sisko grimaced.

"We'll have to gamble that the comets won't hit near

them. Once the battle's over--with luck--we'll

be able to resume the search for them. And to resume

warding off Armageddon."

"Sylshessa." He could hear the

wry smile in Kira's voice. "I suspect

Kor's not going to give you enough time to drop your

shields and transport us now. So I guess

I'll see you after you've won." Sisko allowed

himself a smile in return. "And good luck to you,

too, Major. Sisko out."

"Captain." Odo turned to catch his

glance as soon as the transmission was cut.

Sisko turned to face him, barely noticing

Armageddon's terminator spinning massively

toward them as they crossed the planet's rusty

dayside. "We're being hailed on all wide-beam

channels by the Klingons. Should we acknowledge?"

"Under no

circumstances." Sisko slapped a hand down on

his communications console. "All hands to battle

stations," he snapped over the ship's intercom,

trying not to think of how few souls were actually aboard

the Defiant to hear him. "I want all phasers

charged and all photon torpedoes armed and ready."

"Captain." That was Odo again, glowering down at

his panel as if it had betrayed him. "The Klingons

didn't wait for our acknowledgment. Kor is

broadcasting some kind of message to us on all

channels."

"Put it

on screen," Sisko said curtly.

Armageddon's rusty image vanished, replaced

by a broad Klingon face tipped back in a roar

of gusty laughter. Kor looked very cheerful and very

drunk, but not a whit less threatening for that.

"Sisko? he roared, sloshing what looked like

blood wine toward the viewscreen. A spray of

ink red droplets momentarily blotted the display,

then trickled into a few out-of-focus runnels

dripping down it. "I know you're out there, Sisko!

Come out of hiding and fight!"

"Not if I can help it," Sisko said between his

teeth. "Odo, get him off the main screen, but

monitor his transmission, just in case he says

something useful."

"Yes, sir." The ancient Klingon warrior's

brazen face and disheveled gray hair

vanished, but the image that replaced them wasn't the

planet below. It was a crusted, black bulk of

ice, fractured in places and on the verge of

breaking into multiple, smaller fragments.

O'Brien whistled. "We'll have to be careful how

we hit that."

"Yes,"

Osgood agreed. "Too strong a blow will

fragment it and send some pieces falling onto the

planet. Too weak a nudge, and we won't

deflect it at all. What we should probably

try for is--" An explosion splashed through the

cometary haze before she could finish speaking, the

familiar searing glare of phaser fire. Sisko

cursed and swung toward Thornton. "Where's that coming

from?"

"The Klingons." The sensor tech sounded shaken

by the data now scrolling across his output screen.

"They must have changed orbit while they were rounding the

planet--they're coming up fast, heading fourteen-forty

mark threeb" More phaser fire, this time near enough

to send a ripple of magnetic interference humming

through the Defiant's shield controls. "Still firing

randomly?" Sisko demanded. "Yes." That answer

was Odo's, confident and calm at his panel. "They

should pass us in approximately-was A closer

phaser blast interrupted him, spasming the entire

viewscreen to white in a way that only a

close-range blast could do. "Damage report!"

Sisko ordered over the automatic shrilling of

proximity alarms. "Shields at ninety-eight

percent, no direct hit on any sector,"

O'Brien said promptly. Sisko opened his mouth

to acknowledge, but the image condensing into view on the

main screen stopped the words in his throat. The

cometary fragment they had intended to hit was glowing like

an incendiary had hit it, all of its fractures

and breaks standing out like shards of jagged

lightning against the black-crusted surface. The

light inside grew brighter instead of dimming as

phaser fire refracted and reflected its way through

the weakest points--until, with an explosion of

smoking icy debris, the comet shattered into a spray

of high-velocity fragments. Each chunk spun off

in a different direction, almost too fast to see

except for the plume of white vapor left behind it like

a contrail. With a cold ache in his stomach, Sisko

abruptly understood why Farabaugh had advised them

against trying to destroy the comets with phaser fire.

He spun toward the science officer, holding his

voice steady with an effort. "Do we need to stop

any of those fragments?"

"Working on that

now, sir." Farabaugh's words were clipped, his

voice tense enough to make the skin on Sisko's

back crawl with foreboding. "Osgood, check

intercept on fragment nine, that's the fastest one--"

"Too late." Even

muffled across the hum of the computer, Sisko could

hear the frustration in the other ensign's voice.

"It's already gone atmospheric."

"Can we

hit it again with our phasers?" O'Brien

demanded. "Maybe blast it smaller, into more harmless

pieces."

"I don't have any targeting data,"

Odo warned. "I need specific coordinates

transferred in from the computer, now!" Sisko opened

his mouth to confirm that order, but a brilliant

explosion across the viewscreen stopped him. That

hadn't been the fierce, probing flare of Kor's

phasers--it had been the raging red-tinged

fireball of a comet, exploding up from

Armageddon's dense lower atmosphere. Fragment

nine hadn't waited for them to intercept it.

"Damage report," he said grimly. "On the

planet."

"Long-range sensors

show that fragment nine exploded over the open

ocean, Captain," Thornton said. "There'll

probably be some damage from shock waves and

tsunamis along the coast, but the away team shouldn't

be affected." Jaw muscles he hadn't even

realized he'd locked unclenched with Sisko's sigh

of relief. Before he had even exhaled the last of

it, however, Osgood had spun to give him an

urgent look. "Computer models show three more

large fragments and a mass of smaller

bodies on impact courses, Captain," she

warned. "They appear to be headed for the main continent,

near the away team." She saw Odo's scowl and

swung back to her station. "Transferring data

to weapons control--"

"It's too late for us to run an intercept

course on them, Captain," Farabaugh added

unnecessarily. "We'll have to use photon

torpedoes for deflection."

"And we can fire only two at a

time," Worf pointed out. "In the meantime, the

Klingons will have pin-pointed our location." Sisko

grunted, rapidly weighing up his options and finding

them all unpleasant. "Farabaugh, mark the two

largest fragments for Worf to aim at," he

snapped. "Commander, fire when ready." He took

a deep breath, seeing the distant flare of phasers

that told him Kor's ship had passed them and was

rolling merrily along their course, oblivious to their

cloaked presence. That wouldn't last much longer.

"Odo,

prepare for evasive course maneuvers on my

mark. Prepare to engage npon firing, at my

mark."

"Firing torpedos, now. "Worf

tapped at his controls with fierce restraint, making

the distant hiss of torpedo launch echo through the

ship. An instant later, two blossoms of

rose-stained light sprouted within the dust brown

curve of Armageddon's upper atmosphere.

"Both comet fragments were deflected into high-angle

trajectories, and are on course to exit the

atmosphere without exploding," Farabaugh reported

without being asked. Sisko grunted acknowledgment.

"As soon as torpedoes are rearmed, I want

to target the third large fragment--" "Klingons

approaching, seventeen-ninety mark six,"

Thornton said abruptly. The rusty curve of

Armageddon vanished from the screen, replaced by a

thousand smeared-out streaks of gauzy light as the

cloaked Kli ngon ship flashed through the comet debris

field at close range. "Firing phasers--"

Sisko opened his mouth to order return fire, but the

shattering impact of a direct phaser rocked him

sideways before he could speak. Instinct more than thought

spat the next words out of his mouth. "Red alert!

Evasive maneuver alpha!" Worf threw the

ship into a skidding turn, hard enough to slam half the

bridge crew into their consoles and tear the other half

away. "Damage reports." Odo

answered first, as calmly as if they hadn't just been

attacked without provocation. "Shields are holding

at seventy-eight percent. No structural

damage."

"All ship's systems on line and functioning,"

O'Brien reported. "But it looks like we might

have lost one of our comet-trackers." Sisko spared

a quick glance over his shoulder in time to see Osgood

prop Farabaugh up from where he'd been flung by the

shock of impact. Blood trickled down the young

science officer's forehead, but his eyes were already

fluttering open. He groaned a protest as

Osgood used her own weight to wedge him into the

corner between his console and hers, but she sensibly

ignored him. "Klingons are firing again," Odo

warned. A moment later, the Defiant shuddered under

a second direct impact, this time knocking

Thornton away from his science station. "Shields

holding at sixty-three percent."

"Evasive maneuver delta!" Sisko

snapped, then braced himself as the Defiant's

spinning course reversal again tugged at them harder

than the inertial dampeners could compensate for.

"Increase speed to warp five. Where are the

Klingons?" Thornton had to scramble

to regain his seat, but his response was still fast and

confident. "Klingon ship is four-hundred-and

fifty-kilometers away and dropping fast.

We'll be out of phaser range in fifteen

seconds."

"Maintain evasive maneuvers

until then." Sisko turned to check on the

status of his comet-tracking team and found Farabaugh

on his feet again, squinting painfully at his display

screen. "Mr. Thornton, please call someone

up from the medical bay to treat Mr. Farabaugh."

"I have, sir. Medic Walroth's on her

way."

"It's too late, Captain," Farabaugh

murmured.

Sisko frowned, but the young science officer looked

so unaware of his own bloodstained condition that he

couldn't mean himself. "Too late to stop the last comet

fragment, Ensign?"

"Too late to warn the away team,

sir." Farabaugh gave him an anguished

look. "I can't be a hundred percent sure, but it

looks like that fragment is headed for the area of the

Klingon's main encampment. It will hit in just a few

seconds." Sisko's gut clenched in

dismay. "Notify them anyway," he snapped at

Thornton, then vaulted up to scowl at the latest

computer model results. "How large an impact

are we looking at?" The sidelong glance Osgood

gave Sisko held a wealth of regret. "The

fragment was the smallest of the three, but it was still larger

than a shuttlecraft. And its velocity was low enough

to allow it to penetrate deep into the troposphere.

The best estimate is that it will probably be about as

powerful as a hundred quantum torpedoes. And there

are a dozen smaller fragments right behind it." A

somber echo of silence filled the bridge, until

the first bloom of light burst through the blue-black

shadow of planetary night. "God help the away

team," O'Brien said, watching the light spread like

a stain across the atmosphere. His voice was so

fervent it was hard to tell if the words were a curse

or a prayer. "God help Armageddon."

CHAPTER 7

SHALLOW, RESTLESS SLEEP. Hours after

Bashir's body had collapsed in exhaustion, his

mind remained feverishly kinetic--aware that he

slept, yet frustratingly unable to order his thoughts

beyond a miasma of dreams. The bark and cough of

Klingon voices melded with the skritch of

xirri feet on tuq'mor, an eerie symphony

of worry and unidentifiable sounds. Even the sharp,

here-again-gone-again thunder that had preceded each spastic

downpour throughout the long evening had soaked into his

unconscious until it twisted into a rolling,

swollen snake, filling the world, licking the edges

of the sky. It coiled into a knot that filled his

empty stomach; his sleeping body rearranged on

its stiff bower of limbs, hands clenching into fists in

front of his eyes to block the actinic glare of the

thunder's menace. I can't even run from you, he

admitted wearily. There are wounded here I can't

leave, and I'm too tired to be afraid

anymore. Whatever you're going to do, you might as

well get it over with. The serpent struck with

explosive speed, and Bashir jerked violently

awake. What could only have been thunder's contrail still

echoed off toward infinity. Its deep, almost

physical waves pounded hotly inside Bashir's

skull. The warm, plush bodies that had nestled on

all sides of him during sleep popped up with

equal alarm, all of them slapped from dreams by a

giant's hand. He reached instinctively to smooth the

fur on the closest xirri's skull. Light

stung his eyes--daylight, except... not

daylight. Bashir rose slowly, his breath

squeezed into a fist in his chest, and raised his eyes

to a roaring, flame-colored sky. Overlapping

shadows swung in wild arcs across the ground, across the

faces and bodies of Klingons and xirri. Burning

ribbons crisscrossed the night sky like flares.

Beyond the farthest stretch of horizon, a fat cylinder

of fire rocketed straight downward, dragging a

brilliant scar of light behind it. Gas and dust and

fire mushroomed suddenly skyward, exploding

light across the tuq'mor canopy, bathing the world in a

scarlet-and-gold brilliance that somehow leached all

life from it. Bashir stared into the roiling inferno in

an agony of silence. It seemed hours later that the

coarse cannonade of thunder finally cracked through their

tiny camp. "Is that the direction we came from?"

For some reason, he expected someone other than the

painted xirri doctor when he looked down at

whoever clenched his hand. Panic, struggling awake through

his confusion, lifted his voice to a near shout.

"Was that anywhere near the main camp?" he asked,

looking all around him for someone who could understand the question.

Xirri scampered past, some of them already carrying

wounded on their backs, others randomly snatching up

blankets, foodstuffs, tools in their

flight. The crash and rumble of banchory plowing their

way into the tuq'mor's leading edge almost drowned the

Klingons' alarmed shouting, but not the brave

battle-chants some of the young men had begun as they

swept up gear and passed it off to others. Bashir

wondered if they intended to stay and fight. Against

what? He spun about, searching the swarm of bodies

for a familiar face, and found K'Taran herding her

own small flock of xirri into step with the rest of the

exodus. He ran to her, grabbing at her arm.

"Where did that come down?"

"Over theon the closest xirri's skull.

Light stung his eyes--daylight, except... not

daylight. Bashir rose slowly, his breath

squeezed into a fist in his chest, and raised his eyes

to a roaring, flame-colored sky. Overlapping

shadows swung in wild arcs across the ground, across the

faces and bodies of Klingons and xirri. Burning

ribbons crisscrossed the night sky like flares.

Beyond the farthest stretch of horizon, a fat cylinder

of fire rocketed straight downward, dragging a

brilliant scar of light behind it. Gas and dust and

fire mushroomed suddenly skyward, exploding

light across the tuq'mor canopy, bathing the world in a

scarlet-and-gold brilliance that somehow

leached all life from it. Bashir stared into the roiling

inferno in an agony of silence. It seemed hours

later that the coarse cannonade of thunder finally

cracked through their tiny camp. "Is that the direction

we came from?" For some reason, he expected someone

other than the painted xirri doctor when he looked

down at whoever clenched his hand. Panic, struggling

awake through

his confusion, lifted his voice to a near shout.

"Was that anywhere near the main camp?" he asked,

looking all around him for someone who could understand the question.

Xirri scampered past, some of them already carrying

wounded on their backs, others randomly snatching up

blankets, foodstuffs, tools in their flight. The

crash and rumble of banchory plowing their way into the

tuq'mor's leading edge almost drowned the Klingons'

alarmed shouting, but not the brave battle-chants some

of the young men had begun as they swept up gear and

passed it off to others. Bashir wondered if they

intended to stay and fight. Against what? He spun

about, searching the swarm of bodies for a familiar

face, and found K'Taran herding her own small

flock of xirri into step with the rest of the exodus.

He ran to her, grabbing at her arm. "Where did that

come down?"

"Over the ocean." She took hold of his hand,

gripping it possessively instead of pushing it away

as he expected. "There's nothing that direction but the

poacher's camp." The poacher's camp... and

Heiser. Bashir watched the blackening cloud

slowly turn itself inside out. It was a terrible thought,

but he found himself hoping dismally that the comet's

destruction had been horrifying--That a lone

Human physician's assistant would have barely

had time to notice the approach of the light. That no

one had felt any pain. The rank stink of burning

wood feathered into their clearing like fleeing ghosts.

"Come." K'Taran pulled insistently at his hand.

"We can't stay out here."

Bashir tried to tug himself free, resorting

to peeling her fingers loose one at a time. "I've

got to get back to my friends."

"You'll never make

it."

"Then take me on a banchory!"

"No." He pried his hand from hers

with a last angry yank. "If there's another comet

strike--"

"Then you

will all die together." She made an

abortive swipe to catc h him again, but took the hint

and clenched her fists at her side when he jerked

back out of her reach. "It will serve no purpose!"

What purpose did it have to serve? Die apart or

die together, they would still all die in the end. And

Bashir had no honor issues to prevent him from

being with his friends when that happened. Whirling away from

her, he pushed through the jostling crowd, squeezing his

way against the flow of bodies until he reached the

makeshift bed he'd shared with his xirri helpers.

He didn't need any extra light to riffle through

his small clutter of belongings--the sky was still bright as

dawn, crisscrossed with contrails and filled with a

rumbling like a million launching shuttles. His

tri-corder lay where it had fallen when he passed

into sleep, open and on its side atop the pile of

branches. The regenerator he found a few layers

farther down, where it had slipped between gaps in the

foliage. Its power cell still glowed reassuringly,

charged and ready to work. Only his main Meedkit was

gone. He dragged aside handfuls of branch,

searching with both sight and feel for the metal satchel.

Mud, bits of broken tuq'mor, the remnants of

what might have once been some thick-skinned fruit,

but no medkit. Twisting in place, he

caught a glimpse of movement through the dancing

shadows, and watched three xirri heft one of the

unconscious patients between them by each grabbing an

outflung limb. A fourth xirri trailed them,

its arms filled with supplies and the strap of a square

metal container slung over one narrow shoulder. The

medkit bounced noisily along the burned ground behind

it as it ran. "Hey!" Bashir scrambled to his

feet. A growing layer of smoke met him when he

stood, catching at his breath and making him cough.

"Hey, wait! You have my gear!" As though the

xirri might understand. They disappeared into the confusion and

smoke, scaling the charred edges of tuq'mor and

joining the general mass of activity between the fires in

the underbrush and the fires in the sky. When K'Taran

appeared at his side again--this time minus any xirri

--he asked breathlessly, "Where are they going?" as

he fitted his tri-corder back into its pouch. She

moved him a few steps to one side, out of the path of a

banchory half-loaded with supplies. "I don't

know." Bashir watched two xirri pet a

fidgeting banchory into stillness so four waiting

Klingons could clamber aboard. "But you're going with

them," he said, more to indicate that he realized it than

because he expected any sort of

explanation. "Wherever it is"--she stepped up

close behind him to avoid another approaching

banchory--"it has to be safer than here."

And then her arms were around him, iron-hard and

tight. Bashir barely had the chance to gasp a

protest before she yanked him off balance with enough force

to shock the wind out of him. His feet skittered in the

mud; a clink of boot-on-metal kicked his

dropped regenerator out of sight beneath a skirt of

branches and burned leaves. K'Taran dragged him

backward as inexorably as a tractor beam. When

the pungent smell of wet banchory wrapped around

them like a wool blanket, panic swelled in

Bashir's stomach. He surged against her hold,

tried to tangle his feet in the burned detritus

all around, kicked back against K'Taran in a

desperate attempt to wrench himself free. New

hands--bigger, stronger pinned his arms, lifting him

against an armor-plated side. "Let me go!" Then

he was flat atop a banchory's wide shoulders,

pushed face downward by the weight of two Klingons,

his tricorder grinding into his hip. "Stop it!" he

pleaded. "You can't do this!" He managed to work one

arm under himself, but couldn't gain the leverage to lift

himself before the force of the banchory lurching up

from its kneel knocked him flat. "Let me go!"

He felt K'Taran's hand flex slightly between his

shoulders, but she said nothing. The trail they used

stretched wider than their banchory, smashed open

by everyone who had fled ahead of them, then gnawed at

by the streamers of flame that still trailed randomly from the

sky. Smoke curdled at banchory-height,

snaking through the tuq'mor canopy; Bashir heard the

shattering crash of a tree cleaving its own path toward

the ground disturbingly

nearby. Coughing, he struggled upright, away from the

worst of the heat pouring off the burning tuq'mor. This

time K'Taran let him. I hate you, he wanted

to growl at her. Except he didn't, not really.

He hated this grief, and the leaden, aching despair,

but K'Taran hadn't been the one to bring the comets

raining. She'd just forced him into what a Klingon no

doubt considered honorable inaction. And he hated that.

Hated having no way to save himself, and no one

else to save. Xirri raced along the crumbling

canopy, some slower than the laboring banchory, some

faster. Everything scorched by the impact that had first

exploded the clearing--two kilometers on all

sides--crackled and puffed into flame in uneven

spurts. The burn front seemed barely

moving, just irregular platters of fire scattered

throughout a nightmare landscape. When he first

glimpsed shadow figures jerking and turning behind the

tongues of light, he unconsciously identified

them as refugees like themselves, heading into whatever

insanity waited at the end of this pointless flight.

Then something in the parallax between banchory and tuq'mr

penetrated his stunned numbness, and he realized that the

trio of xirri were simply struggling behind the path of the

flame, not actually moving; K'Taran and her

banchory were passing them by. He didn't

consciously decide to rescue them. One moment, he

knelt on all fours on the back of a running

banchory; the next, he was grabbing at

ash-blackened tuq'm limbs and hauling himself off his

mount and into the inferno.

"Human, not" But he was free of her, still moving,

outrunning her in truth even as his thoughts raced

precious seconds into the future. He gained the

weave of charred canopy easily enough. It gave

gently under his weight, springy and firm, like a

trampoline. But the narrow fingers of vine and wood

felt more like a tightrope beneath his feet as he picked

his way across the surface. Thank God and his

parents' vanity for the coordination needed

to navigate the deadly course. Little worms of

fire twice darted unexpectedly upward from below.

The under-stories were burning, he realized.

Suddenly, the image of creeping along a

tightrope was replaced with a burning mine field, and

Bashir felt a sting of sweat trickle into his

eyes. The painted xirri looked up when Bashir

bent over it. A tiny, bloodstained figure that could

only be a child clung to the older native's back,

and the adult xirri dragged imploringly at the arm of

another, unconscious, adult. Bashir

recognized her from his earlier round of triage on the

xirri wounded--a young female suffering from what had

seemed like smoke inhalation and dehydration. Lucky,

compared to the others. He'd assigned a geriatric

male to keep her upright and feed her water, but

hadn't had the ability to do much more for her at the time.

Now, only the faint twitching of her eyelids

betrayed that she was still alive. Too much smoke,

too much excitement. Tug as it might, the painted

xirri wouldn't get her even five steps closer

to wherever they headed. "G." Stooping, Bashir set

his feet as widely as he dared and scooped the

panting female up with one arm. "Go!" he shouted

again, pushing at the painted xirri. "I've

got her." For a terrible instant, he thought the

message wouldn't pass between them. Then the painted

xirri touched his hand, light as a butterfly's

kiss, and bounded away with startling speed, the youngster still

clinging to its back. Cradling the unconscious

female against his shoulder to shield her from the smoke,

Bashir straightened and turned back for the trail.

He could hear K'Taran shouting, even though he

couldn't make out the words, and thought he glimpsed her

a ridiculous distance away. Flames cracked and

snapped in a wandering line between them; she'd moved

farther down the trail, away from the unburned path

he'd clambered across to reach here. The thought of

circling around turned his stomach to lead. All he

would do was lose himself and never find his way back to the

others before the fires overran him. Taking a deep,

smoke-tainted breath, he hugged his patient

protectively and ran at the line of fire before his

common sense could suggest otherwise. Heat washed

across him like a blast of desert air. A brief,

searing sting across the exposed backs of his hands, then

he was clear of it. Not even burned, he realized as

the trampoline canopy caught him and staggered him with

its chaotic gives and bounces. Then his foot

crashed through to nothingness, and he fell to one

knee so heavily that his jaw cracked against the top

of the little xirri's head. "K'Taran!" Instinct, that

was all--he'd shouted because some foolish primate

instinct said that any other ape close enough to hear you

might be recruited to help. He could see her already

leaping onto the tuq'mor, so very far away, too very

far away to do anything about the predatory fire or the

unravelling footing beneath him. Still, when the next

layer caved in with a roar, and K'Taran abruptly

slipped above his line of sight, she was the one who

called out. Bashir was too busy jamming his foot

into a knot of tuq'mor vines to answer. He had

to lift the little xirri over his head to roll her onto

the top of the canopy. He couldn't take her with him

--refused to let her fall and burn simply because

he'd been too stupid to find a path through the

tuq'mor that would hold his Human weight. When

K'Taran's ash-stained face appeared above the lip

of the ever-growing hole, Bashir thrust the xirri

toward her. "Take her! Take her!" But he

couldn't tell if K'Taran understood. Before her

hands even found a grip in the little creature's fur,

the world fell out from under him, and he went plunging into the

abyss.

The sky ignited two seconds after

Kira's hoarse shout of warning echoed down the

banchory trail. Dax knew what it was immediately--

her third Trill host, Emony, had seen an

asteroid impact in her youth from the outskirts of

Ymoc City. The memory had burned indelibly

into her symbiont's neural circuits the

explosion of light in the sky and the long rumbling roar

that followed, the iron-scented wind smashing down from

fire-colored clouds, the thunder of flames in the

distance as the central city burned. And, for

hours afterward, the slow downward drift of silent,

black flakes of ash. The light this time was different

--bright and sharp as a photon torpedo blast,

consuming the entire sky with its flare. "Get under

cover!" Dax shouted back at Kira, then turned

and dove for the most open spot she could see in the

wall of tuq'mor rimming the trail. The thick

tangle of leaves and branches resisted her entry,

snagging in her hair and gouging deep scratches across

the exposed skin of face and hands. Dax cursed and

dragged herself deeper, worming her way down through the

underbrush to the muddy wetlands below. The drenching rains

had covered the mud with a running glitter of water,

making all of it look exactly the same. Dax

paused, unsure where to burrow in. With the

clumsy noise of her passage through the tuq'mor

silenced, she could hear the ominous stillness that had

enveloped the scrub forest, as if every living creature

held its breath in fear. Jadzia's blood

jolted with a distracting surge of adrenaline, but the

symbiont's shielded inner brain was less

subject to such animal instincts. It calmly sent

her eyes sweeping across the wet glimmer, seeking out

the place where the tuq'mor sent the least roots

snaking into the mud. That was where the water would be

deepest-- Dax took a deep breath and dove

head first for the hidden pool, feeling water and mud

splash up around her even as her ears cracked with a

sound so loud it registered as pain, not noise. An

enormous boulder smashed down on her from above,

slamming her breath out of her lungs and hammering her

so deep into the muddy bottom that she felt the silken

hug of sediment close over her entire body.

Panic spiked through symbiont and host alike, and

Dax struggled to stop her downward momentum, thrashing

her arms and legs through the thickening sediment in a vain

attempt to escape the rock pushing her down. An

instant later, the enormous weight was

unac-countably gone. Dax twisted and speared her

arms upward, fireworks exploding across her

vision from lack of breath. She felt a last, sick

surge of energy kick through her muscles--the

release of her symbiont's inner reserves of

oxygen and glucose in a desperate attempt

to save its host's life and its own. With an effort

that strained every muscle in her body, Dax hauled

herself upward, swimming and climbing simultaneously

through the mud to unseen light and air. Two

convulsive jerks broke her head free of mud--and

slapped her face with scalding hot water instead.

Instinctive panic launched Dax further upward,

her face lifting with a gasp to meet the hot, dry

kiss of air. There wasn't time to worry if the

comet's fiery breath would burn her lungs--air

rushed into her starved chest without her even willing it,

oxygen and smoke and heat all mixed together in

treacherous blessing. Dax gasped twice, then smoke

burned her throat like acid and she lost all her

breath again in helpless coughing. She sank back down

into hot water and cooler mud, submerging up to her

chin before her frantically outstretched fingers caught

hold of an exposed root and steadied her. Her

next breath, however, was surprisingly free of

smoke. She opened mud-crusted eyes and saw a

swift of steam and exhaled gases rising from

the wetland's scalded surfave creating a layer of

clear, warm mist that buoyed up the sinking smoke from

above. For a long time, Dax did nothing but lie there,

gasping like a beached fish and allowing her symbiont's

internal reserves to build up to tolerable levels

again. The blinding light of the comet's first impact was

gone, but Armageddon's night sky still glowed with the

pale radiance of explosive afterglow. The top of the

tuq'mor glowed, too, sullen charcoal red where the

topmost branches and leaves had withstood the worst

of the firebali's passage. A flaming brand fell

into the water beside her, its ruby embers turning cold

and black after it hit. Something about that wasn't right.

It took a minute of muzzy thought for Dax

to realize she hadn't heard the sizzle the burning

wood must have made as it quenched. In fact, now that

she had time to think about it, she realized she couldn't

hear anything at all--no crackling of fire from the

forest canopy burning overhead, not even a splash of

water when she moved. The only noise her brain

registered was a sort of soundless shrilling that she

guessed came from her own deafened ears. Another

burnt branch dropped into the water from above, this time

close enough to splash Dax with raktajino-hot water.

She cursed--silently--and scrambled

to free herself from her muddy sanctuary. The burning

canopy wouldn't stay alight much longer, she

guessed; the smoke was already starting to clear as the

fires were extinguished by water-sodden wood. But deaf

as she was, she had no way to find Kira if she

stayed inside the tangled scrub forest. She would have

to return to the banchory trail--and hope her

companion was ambulatory enough to do the same.

With a scientist's unquenchable curiosity, Dax

noticed that the lower levels of the tuq'mor had

survived the comet explosion amazingly intact,

protected from the fireball by their own dense, damp

foliage. Many of the softer ivy leaves had curled

and crisped from the heat, but the thicker succulents

looked undamaged. Even some of the ivy-brambles had

survived where they dipped long tendrils into the

wetlands. This odd ecosystem may have been damaged

by the comet's blow, Dax thought, but it had by no means

been destroyed. The same thing couldn't be said of the

banchory trail, however. Huge swathes of its

tuq'mor rim had been smashed across the once-clear

path and now lay smoldering on the seared ground. The

lack of interlaced support at the scrub forest's

edge must have allowed the comet's shock wave

to penetrate more deeply there, while the open

air of the slashed trail had let the fireball

blacken the vegetation all the way down to the ground.

Dax's hopes of locating Kira sank as she

realized her line of sight wasn't much better here

than it had been back in the forest interior. For a

long moment, she hesitated on the edge of the

destruction, watching the silent flakes of black

ash drift slowly downward. Uneasy memory

stirred inside her, sparking the same morbid fear

in Jadzia that Emony had felt at Ymoc

City... were any of those ashes the remains of someone

she had known? Under her drying crust of mud, something

fluttered against her shoulder. Dax cursed again and

slapped at her uniform tunic, convinced she must have

inadvertently hauled some inhabitant of the wetland out

with her when she emerged. All she felt beneath her

fingers,

however, was the cool lump of her Starfleet

communicator, clinging stubbornly to her despite her

head to toe immersion in mud. It wasn't until the

small metal pin quivered again that she realized she

was being hailed by someone, and just couldn't hear the chirp.

She tapped down the communicator's response

button and held it to override whoever was hailing.

"Dax here," she said, feeling the vibration

of her words in her mouth and jaw even though she couldn't

hear them. "If this is the Defiant calling, I

can't hear you. You'll have to buzz the communicator off

and on in universal signal code." She got a

reply as soon as she lifted her fingers, but it

wasn't the staccato coded message she'd

expected. Instead, it was a long, chirping pulse,

almost exactly the same length as hers had been.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Dax held down the

communicator response button again, but didn't

speak into it. This time, she was careful to keep her

transmission much shorter. She was rewarded with an

equally short quiver in response, despite the

silence that was all anyone on the other end of that

connection would have heard. Assuming they coue

fireball blacken the vegetation all the way down

to the ground. Dax's hopes of locating Kira

sank as she realized her line of sight wasn't much

better here than it had been back in the forest

interior. For a long moment, she hesitated on the

edge of the destruction, watching the silent flakes of

black ash drift slowly downward. Uneasy

memory stirred inside her, sparking the same

morbid fear in Jadzia that Emony had felt at

Ymoc City... were any of those ashes the

remains of someone she had known? Under her drying

crust of mud, something fluttered against her shoulder.

Dax cursed again and slapped at her uniform

tunic, convinced she must have inadvertently hauled some

inhabitant of the wetland out with her when she emerged.

All she felt beneath her fingers,

however, was the cool lump of her Starfleet

communicator, clinging stubbornly to her despite her

head to toe immersion in mud. It wasn't until the

small metal pin quivered again that she realized she

was being hailed by someone, and just couldn't hear the chirp.

She tapped down the communicator's response

button and held it to override whoever was hailing.

"Dax here," she said, feeling the vibration of her

words in her mouth and jaw even though she couldn't hear

them. "If this is the Defiant calling, I can't

hear you. You'll have to buzz the communicator off and

on in universal signal code." She got a

reply as soon as she lifted her fingers, but it

wasn't the staccato coded message she'd

expected. Instead, it was a long, chirping pulse,

almost exactly the same length as hers had been.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Dax held down the

communicator response button again, but didn't

speak into it. This time, she was careful to keep

her transmission much shorter. She was rewarded with

an equally short quiver in response, despite

the silence that was all anyone on the other end of that

connection would have heard. Assuming they could hear at

all. "Kira!" It was joyful instinct that made

Dax say it into the communicator, even though she

knew her companion had to be just as deaf as she was.

Then she slowly buzzed the same message through the

pin in short on-off bursts, spelling out each letter

of the Bajoran major's name in universal signal

code. There was a long pause after she finished,

during which Dax began to worry that Kira's lack of

Starfleet training meant she might not know how

to translate that coded message. Then her own pin

began to vibrate, long and short bursts beneath her

cupping fingers. "Dax," it spelled out first. Then,

more slowly, "Tricorder position." Dax cursed

and yanked her mud-covered tricorder up from her

belt, praying it worked. It wasn't the immersion in

mud she was worried about--THE legendary

durability Starfleet built into its equipment could

withstand much worse conditions. But air-burst

explosions like the one they'd just endured had a tendency

to emit an invisible wave of electromagnetic

radiation in addition to its atmospheric

shock wave. Depending on how strong that EM

pulse had been, there was a good chance the tricorder's

delicate quantum circuits had been fused

by stray electrons. The instrument's display lit

up correctly, but the babble of machine code that

streaked across it when she punched in the request for

Kira's communicator pin coordinates confirmed

Dax's fears. It looked like all the higher-level

programming circuits had been scrambled. She

scowled down at the display's final result.

Alett gerivok--Vulcan computer code for the

number twenty-seven. But twenty-seven of what

units? In what direction? Could she even be sure

the tricorder had understood her request to begin with, and

wasn't just spitting out random nonsense? Well,

there was only one way to find out. Dax took three

experimental steps down the cluttered banchory

trail toward the place she'd last seen Kira,

then paused to reinput the request for her

coordinates. This time the racing lines of codes

steadied out on prern gerivok te prern--the code

for twenty-five- point-five. She glanced back

at her initial position, gauging the distance she had

traveled. a meter and a half seemed just about right.

Encouraged, she continued walking in that

direction, pausing to recheck the tricorder's

output every time she had to clamber through another tangle

of downed trees. At her sixth checkpoint, the

Vulcan number on the tricorder was higher than

before. Painstakingly, Dax retraced her steps and

checked both sides of the trail until the readout

would go no lower, then shoved herself into the charred

embrace of the tuq'mor. According to the tricorder,

Kira was only six meters away from her now, and the

sky still held enough luminous violet light to see through

the tangled vegetation. Dax rechecked the readout

once more to make sure she was heading in the right

direction, then clipped the tricorder back on her

belt and started searching through the smoky shadows. After

a moment, her communicator pin quivered again. Dax

paused, translating the vibrating dashes and dots

in mounting impatience. "Turn right under," they

spelled out enigmatically. Dax turned right as

ordered but saw nothing to go under, just more tangled

tuq'mor wetland. "Log," added her communicator

pin in slow, tired quivers. "In water." Dax

cursed, loud enough this time for her recovering ears to give

her a faint, tinny backwash of the sound, and knelt

down to scan the water line, looking for a charred log

big enough to trap a Bajoran female.

She found it not half a meter away, protruding from

a wetland pond like a tilted obelisk. Its

burnt wood was still ruby-warm on the upper

surface where it hadn't been quenched. The dying

firelight sparked glowing reflections in two dark

eyes, peering up at her CAUSTICALLY from beneath the

log's heavy shadow. Kira tilted her chin up just

enough to lift her mouth above the waterline and, faint as a

cricket's chirp, Dax heard her say, "About

time." Dax didn't bother replying, instead

plunging down into the still-warm muck beside her friend,

fearful that her position meant crushed limbs or

battered organs. To her relief, she found the log

split into a twisted fork half a meter below the water

line, trapping Kira's half-turned torso in a

vise of chokingly thick thorned branches. At

least half a dozen of them had snagged on the tough

fabric of her Bajoran uniform. Kira said

something else, too faint for Dax's shrilling ears

to hear, then demonstrated by reaching both hands up over

her head and wrapping them around the still-smoldering log.

Her wet uniform sleeves began to steam before she could

even lock her hands for one good tug against the tangled

thorns. She pulled them away a moment later just as

smoke began to rise. Dax winced, seeing

the places where the cloth had seared through on the

major's more stubborn attempts to extricate

herself. Lifting a finger at Kira to make her

wait, Dax pulled out her phaser and set it to its

narrowest, knife-thin firing spray. Taking a

deep breath, she let herself sink down into the muddy

water. She couldn't see much through the murk, but

by patting her way along the edge of Kira's torso

with one hand, she managed to sweep a careful line of

phaser fire at a ten-centimeter distance, severing

thorny twigs from their parent branch without trying

to disentangle Kira from them. She bobbed up to take

a second deep breath, then

submerged again and sliced through the tangled vegetation

on the other side of the fork. By the time she'd surfaced

again and swiped the muddy water out of her eyes,

Kira was already reaching up to grasp the smoldering log

again. "Wait." Dax tugged her friend's arms apart,

then began scooping water onto the glowing wood with

both cupped hands. It sizzled and steamed and

exploded in little hissing pops, making the log

slowly darken. Dax kept splashing until most

of the surface was completely sodden, then stepped

back and came around the log to stand behind Kira,

holding a thumb up where the major could see

it. She nodded and lifted her arms to clench tightly

around the dampened wood. "Now!" Kira's voice

said faintly, and she hauled herself half out of the water

with one strong upward jerk. Dax caught and steadied

her when her momentum faded, giving Kira a chance

to shake one booted foot free of the thorny

tangle. With the flexibility that came with her size,

the Bajoran then planted her heel on the log at

the same height as her chest and kicked herself clear

of the thorns, so powerfully that she staggered both of them

back a step in the mud. Dax caught her balance

first, grabbing hold of the nearest unburnt branch

to steady them both. "Are you all right?" she shouted at

her companion. Kira grinned at her through a mask

of ashen dribbles. Despite the burns on her

sleeves and the thorn cuts that had already started

dappling her legs with drops of blood, the

Bajoran major looked surprisingly unaffected

by her ordeal. "I've been through worse tortures

in low-security Cardassian prisons!"

she shouted back. What little Dax could hear of her

voice sounded cheerful. "At least here the water's

nice and warm." Dax shook her head, remembering

the instant of scalding heat just after the fireball's

passage. Her face still felt tender from that

momentary immersion. "Too warm for me!" she shouted

back, then paused to listen. A distant rumble echoed

through the fading shrill of her blasted ears. "That sounds

like another comet strike, either smaller or further

away. This must have been a major debris cluster."

Kira winced. "Don't say that like it's a good thing.

Another one could hit right here."

"That's statistically

unlikely," Dax informed her. "So is a stable

wormhole." Kira hauled herself out of the muck,

swinging up to balance with enviable ease on the

low-hanging branch. Dax groaned and forced her aching

muscles to scrabble their way to the same perch,

feeling weighted down by her wet and mud-sodden

uniform. "Our first priority right now is to get

back to the Klingon exile camp and see if

anyone's still alive there. After that, we'll contact the

defiant and see if they're still--I mean, see if

the battle with Kor is over." Dax lifted an

eyebrow at her. "Are we going to beam up if it

is?"

"No. We're going to stay here and locate

Bashir, even if we have to throw away our

communicator pins to do it." Kira took a deep,

decisive breath. "I never left behind a

member of the Shakaar who could have been rescued. And

no matter what Captain Sisko says, I'm not

going to start now."

"Sounds good to me." Dax led the way

back

through the charred tuq'mor to the smoke-filled chasm

of the banchory trail. The late night sky was even

more radiant with afterglow than before, spiked near the

horizon with a sunrise-bright flame and banded above that

with rust-tinged sky and coppery clouds. If she

hadn't known better, Dax would have thought it was dawn.

"Of course, by the time we make it back to epetai

Vrag's settlement, Julian may already have been

there for hours, waiting for us." Kira opened her mouth

to reply, then caught sight of the destruction wrought in

the banchory trail by the comet strike and broke into a

fit of startled coughing instead. "Not hours," she said

sourly, when she finally regained he r voice.

"Weeks. Because that's how long it's going to take us

to get back."

CHAPTER 8

the ONLY THING HE KNEW was that he was

coughing. So hard and so breathlessly that he thought he'd

tear his body apart. No up. No down. He

didn't know who he was talking to when he

croaked, "Stop! Stop! Put me down!" But they

listened to him. And even though the pain followed him and

rode up through him in waves so thick he thought he'd

vomit, Bashir realized it was true darkness

pressing in all around him, not just his own

unconsciousness. Strong Klingon hands lowered him

into a sitting position against a cool, uneven wall.

Distant thunder--or perhaps the explosions of

primitive mortars--trembled through the hard floor,

shivered through his stomach. Shock. Undoubtedly.

Whatever had happened, the pain alone was enough to bottom

out his blood pressure, and he harbored a

morbid suspicion that the cold wetness he

felt collected in his boot was something other than

water. A vague sixth sense of other bodies in

the same enclosed space. Bashir stirred only enough

to rocket pain up his leg and into his stomach, but

felt someone move touchably close in response

to his gasp. He wound his fingers in that someone

else's sleeve. "Where are we?" he whispered.

Another bone-deep rumble shuddered through the world, just below

the level of hearing. Then K'Taran's voice,

aberrantly loud, "Underground." It told him

nothing. But told him enough all the rules had

changed. "The xirri... the one I gave

you. .." "She's fine. She's with the others."

Better than could be said for him. He closed his

eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. A

warm blur of light bloomed against the outside of his

eyelids. He blinked, forcing himself alert, watching

a handful of Klingon youngsters appear behind the spread of

light as though chasing it ahead of them. Singed and

filthy, they each brandished some form of fire, most of

them carrying burning handfuls of tuq'mor in the slings

of their wet tunics. The huge cave came alive

with firefly motes of light as they scattered

to distribute fire all over the chamber. Voices

--some Klingon, some not--bloomed in the warming darkness

alongside the light. "The fire outside is

dying." One of the boys drew closer, a tree

limb almost as thick as his arm wrapped in cloth and

sputtering erratically. "But more fire is coming from the

sky. We will be here for some time."

He knelt beside K'Taran. The flames

strengthened somewhat now that he'd stopped moving, and the

sudden flare of their intensity hurt Bashir's

eyes. "Will he die?" K'Taran reached to take the

torch from the boy, her own eyes stark and gray in the

unreliable light. "He is the Human doctor.

He will tell us." And she held the light

across his outstretched legs. As though doing him some

favor. Years of practice with trauma patients

prevented him from vocalizing any sounds of horror,

but Bashir couldn't stop the panicky whirl of his

thoughts any more than he could stop his heart from thundering.

His uniform was soaked and muddy, tunic and trousers

all reduced to the same ash-riddled iron gray.

Rents in the fabric exposed minute flashes of

scarlet, but none of them accounted for the glossy

overlay of blood down the inside of his right leg.

He followed the stain upward to a knee already

misshapen with swelling. Then realized that it wasn't

edema pushing the fabric of his trousers medially out of

alignment. It was bone. His hands trembled as he

pried his tricorder out of its pouch. Its normally

reassuring warble rang piercingly off the flowstone

walls, and at least the scroll of readings made a

modicum of sense. BP was better than he

expected, although he didn't like his heart rate or

the shallowness of his breathing. Just reading the figure on

how much blood he'd lost made him dizzy. Still,

there was no arterial damage, and at least the

hemorrhaging was slowing. Folding the tricorder

closed in his lap, he rubbed shakily at his

eyes."...So..." K'Taran glanced down

at his leg, then up at his face again with painfully

adolescent bravery. "Will you die?" Leave it

to Klingons to stick with the most basic of questions. "Not

immediately." And for some reason, that struck him as

funny. He decided not to laugh, for fear he'd

frighten them. "Where's the rest of my equipment?"

Even as he asked, the bump and scrape of a dragging

container hurried up on one side. Bashir turned

his head and smiled at the painted xirri doctor.

"Thank you," he said, taking the strap of the medkit

when it was offered. As though some signal passed between

them, the Klingon boy left abruptly, and the little

xirri sidled over into his place. Only two

at a time with any given dead man, Bashir found

himself thinking as he fumbled with the latches on the kit.

It unfolded clumsily, the front panel

clattering onto the floor. Just another of many

quaint Klingon traditions. He found a vial of

stimulant and fitted it carefully onto his

hypospray. "I'm sorry about this," he said as he

calibrated the dosage. A brittle, unreadable

expression flitted across K'Taran's face. "It

is not your fault."

"I should have stayed to the trail. The first rule of

emergency medicine is to avoid making new

victims." This time she caught his hand, halting him

just before he delivered the injection. "It is not your

fault!" she declared when he blinked up at her.

Then, in a tone of choked embarrassment, "It is

my fault. You were caught in the tuq'mor, and the

fire was coming..." She released him and clenched

herhands miserably in front of her. "I did not

realize you would break so easily." He wondered

what she would think if she knew he was far less

fragile than most. Arguing the finer points of

blame was ultimately useless, though. Die from a

comet strike, die from starvation, die from an open leg

fracture. What difference did it really make?

Digging a container of sterile water out of the open

medkit, Bashir held the almost-empty bottle out

toward the painted xirri. He remembered using most

of his supply irrigating xirri wounds, and

remembered his native counterpart following him from

patient to patient with keen interest as he performed the

procedure. Now, Bashir only had to shake the

bottle once before the xirri ducked forward to take

it from him and scampered awaym hopefully in search of

water. K'Taran watched in silence as Bashir

sorted through the rest of his limited pharmacy in search

of something that might tackle the pain of a

comminuted fracture. Nothing powerful that wouldn't also

render him useless for both himself and any other wounded.

Choosing a more lightweight analgesic, he was still

counting vertebrae upward from his sacrum when

K'Taran asked quietly, "Is it true?"

Bashir finished counting, then carefully injected as

large a dose as he dared into his spine. "Is

what true?" She swallowed hard, but didn't

drop her gaze. "That you will die." Ah--that

eternal Klingon pragmatism again. Moving slowly

to give the spinal time to do its work, Bashir twisted

apart the hypospray and tossed the empty vial

back into his kit. "I don't know," he

admitted wearily. "I've lost a lot of

blood, and with no other Humans around, I can't

replace it. And whenever fractured bone is

exposed to air..." Just mentioning it made his leg

shriek with remembered pain, but the spinal already smothered

some of the reality. He managed to push the phantom

anguish aside. "Well, that's not good even when

you've got a whole sickbay to work with. If we're

really stuck down here, and this is all the treatment

I'll receive..." He met her gaze frankly, not

wanting her to see just how badly he was afraid.

"Yes," he said at last. "I'll very

likely die." The xirri returned with the water;

Bashir was just as glad to distract himself from

K'Taran's disturbing fixation with his impending

demise. He flash-sterilized the entire container,

then screwed on the irrigation lid with more dexterity

than he expected. Bending forward flexed the spur

of protruding bone, so he only sliced away the

fabric at the point of the actual break, instead of

opening his pantleg to the ankle the way he would have with

another patient. Blessed numbness let him

approach the procedure at a professional distance.

A patient's fracture, a patient's blood.

It didn't matter who the patient was. He showed

the xirri how to hold the bottle overhead so

gravity could work its magic on the water, and used

both his own hands to explore the fracture as he

irrigated. Only once did he find himself wishing

he had gloves or even sterile drapes. No

sense wishing for things that couldn't be had in an

emergency, though; he banned the thought from his mind and

went back to concentrating on his patient. They were

almost through the third bottle of sterilized water when a

reassuring hand closed on his shoulder and a warm

voice remarked, "You know, I'm getting less

enamored with the native botany by the hour."

It was the humanness of the voice that jerked Bashir's

head up; the swiftness of his movement scattered

sparks across his vision. He clapped one hand

abruptly to the floor, steadying himself, and blinked

furiously to keep from losing sight of consciousness.

The slim, elderly Asian man squatting beside him

rolled smoothly to his knees and CLOSED both

hands protectively around the doctor's upper arm.

"It's all right--I've got you." And the Klingons

have us both. Still, it eased his dizziness to relax his

weight onto someone else's strength. Leaving the

xirri to finish with the water, Bashir let the older

Human ease him back against the stone wall. He

almost felt a rush of blood back into his brain as

his sense of his surroundings realigned and sharpened.

Well, thank God, he thought wearily, turning

to really look at the man kneeling beside him. At

least we've found the Victoria Adams's crew.

He was fit, trim, and flexible in a way

completely at odds with the ancient wisdom in his dark

eyes. At least one hundred, Bashir decided,

for all that he looked not a instead of opening his

pantleg to the ankle the way he would have with another

patient. Blessed numbness let him approach the

procedure at a professional distance. A

patient's fracture, a patient's blood. It

didn't matter who the patient was. He showed the

xirri how to hold the bottle overhead so gravity

could work its magic on the water, and used both his own

hands to explore the fracture as he irrigated.

Only once did he find himself wishing he had

gloves or even sterile drapes. No sense

wishing for things that couldn't be had in an emergency,

though; he banned the thought from his mind and went back

to concentrating on his patient. They were almost through the

third bottle of sterilized water when a reassuring

hand closed on his shoulder and a warm voice remarked,

"You know, I'm getting less enamored with the native

botany by the hour." It was the humanness of the voice

that jerked Bashir's head up; the swiftness of his

movement scattered sparks across his vision. He

clapped one hand abruptly to the floor, steadying

himself, and blinked furiously to keep from losing sight

of consciousness. The slim, elderly Asian man

squatting beside him rolled smoothly to his knees and

CLOSED both hands protectively around the

doctor's upper arm. "It's all right--I've

got you." And the Klingons have us both. Still, it eased

his dizziness to relax his weight onto someone

else's strength. Leaving the xirri to finish

with the water, Bashir let the older Human ease

him back against the stone wall. He almost felt a

rush of blood back into his brain as his sense of his

surroundings realigned and sharpened. Well, thank

God, he thought wearily, turning to really look at

the man kneeling beside him. At least we've found the

Victoria Adams's crew. He was fit,

trim, and flexible in a way completely at odds

with the ancient wisdom in his dark eyes. At least

one hundred, Bashir decided, for all that he

looked not a day over seventy. He wasn't one

of the scientists--the cheerfully commercial jumpsuit

on his slim frame was a familiar staple of the

Interplanetary Space Foundation, a nonprofit

organization that supplied volunteers to research

projects in need of enthusiastic, unskilled

help. Although their advertisements promised

nonspecific "adventure and opportunity,"

Bashir had a feeling being shot down by

Klingons wasn't the type of adventure the

Foundation had intended. Still, there was something about his

friendly, high-cheeked face and the cut of his iron

gray hair that said

"Starfleet Brass," and Bashir found

himself wishing he could sit up straighter

to convey his respect. "Captain..." He wasn't

even sure why he said it. It just seemed the proper

title for the easy competence surrounding this man. A

little glimmer of something bordering on panic chased itself

through the old man's eyes. "Not here, son," he said

gently. Just that quickly, his contagious smile

resurfaced. "Here, we're just two Humans

stuck in the same problem." He shifted position

to offer one hand. "Why don't you call me

George?" Something in the keen way the old man

watched him after this pronouncement said that this was both a

lie and an order. Bashir nodded to show he

understood, and lifted his own hand for shaking. Blood

coated him like a torn glove. He pulled back

before their palms could make contact. "My name's

Julian, Julian Bashir."

"Dr. Bashir." He

flicked his eyes across Bashir's medical

uniform and dipped an acknowledging nod. "Our

hostess tells me you could use a few willing

donors." The blood. On his hand, his pantleg,

the floor. Everywhere but where it should be. "B

negative," he admitted, "at least two

units." Which would buy him time, CLEAR his head a

little, but hardly solve his problem.

Necrosis was necrosis, no matter how much

blood your heart pumped through it. "Well, I'm

A positive," George told him. "But we've

got at least seventeen other Humans I think we

can count on." He braced one hand on his knee in

preparation to stand, and Bashir reached out to catch his

wrist. George halted, eyes alert. "No

wounded," Bashir said firmly. He held the other

officer's gaze to make sure his commitment to this was

clear. "If they aren't completely healthy and

uninjured, I won't take their blood." First

rule of emergency medicine avoid creating new

victims. George nodded solemnly.

"Understood. You hang tight until I get

back." Then he trotted briskly into the deeper

cave, leaving Bashir feeling cold and

unac-countably alone. "Honor grants you the right

of restitution." K'Taran waited until the

doctor flicked a glance at her, then continued

formally, "Traditionally, your family would inherit the

right should you no longer be able to exercise it yourself. But

as you have no family here... I will take whatever

action you require of me. By my own hand." Taking

the empty water bottle from the xirri, Bashir

shook his head to stop the little native from

running off for another refill. "What are you

talking about?" he asked K'Taran. "If you ask

me, I will kill myself." She lifted the bottle from

his shaking hands and carefully wrapped it with its own

bloody irrigation tubing. "A life for a life."

Bashir snugged the bottle and its tubing back into the

kit, shaking again and feeling a little sick. "Don't

be ridiculous. I don't want you to kill yourself."

"Then what? Should I

maim myself in equal measure?"

"Stop it," he said firmly. There was only

one hypo

of system stimulant left, and he wasn't

sure he wanted to use it just yet. K'Taran

surprised him by slamming the kit shut almost on his

fingers. "No!" Bashir jerked away from her

slightly, pushing himself back against the wall. Some

distant awareness knew he'd moved the bones in his

leg again, but what the spinal didn't fully quench

surprise had already washed away. "Do not leave me

with this dishonor on my name!" K'Taran bent over

him fiercely, her breath hot against his face and her

eyes bright with a pain rivalling his own. "I have done

you a terrible wrong. I know from your face that even

Human blood will not erase it.

Please... allow me to balance the debt." He

tried to imagine offering up his life for anything when

he was only fourteen. Then he thought about Dax and

Kira, trapped God only knew where as the sky

fell down around them, and he wondered if it was really

worth raising such impassioned children when they only

grew up to be inflexible, impassioned adults.

"There's only one thing I want." He made himself

relax, but stopped just short of touching her hand. "Go

find my friends. There's room enough for everyone down here,

your grandmother's people included. But I can't go to them now.

Do that for me." At first he thought she might refuse

him. The mention of her grandmother darkened her brow

ridges with anger, and her jaw muscles bunched in

frustration. Then her eyes strayed for only an

instant to his twisted, bloody leg, and all her

adult determination returned with leonine grace.

"I will take the duty," she solemnly announced.

"Will you accept this as honorable restitution for my

crime?" The last painful knot of fear loosened

its grip on Bashir's heart. "I will." She

nodded once, grimly, and sprang to her feet with

all the vigor of a warrior marching into honorable

combat even though she'd almost certainly lose. Perhaps

that was all that was really facing her now. Still,

Bashir put out one hand to stop her before she could

launch herself toward the outside. "I have one more

favor to ask of you." K'Taran hesitated, eyes

dark and flinty with suspicion. "Our honor is in

balance," she told him. The doctor shook his

head, suddenly strangely embarrassed at having

been misunderstood, as though caught in a grave

imposition. "Not an honor debt," he assured

her hastily. "A favor." Then, swallowing hard,

Bashir sat as straight as he could, and clenched his

hands behind his back. "I was wondering if I might

impose on you to set a fractured bone. ..."

According to Dax's antistic tricorder, they were

halfway back to the main Klingon encampment when their

communicators chirped again. This time, Dax could

actually hear as well as feel the signal, although

there was still an odd metallic flatness to the

high-pitched sound. She waited a moment for Kira

to tap her pin and answer, frowning at her when she

didn't. "Aren't you even going to acknowledge the

captain's hail?" It was one thing to contemplate

disobeying orders when it came to evacuating without

Julian, Dax discovered, and quite another to simply

ignore the chain of command. "That's not the Defiant

hailing us," Kira answered. "It's the

wrong frequency." Dax took a breath, realizing

that for once her aching ears hadn't lied to her about a

sound. "Why would someone else be hailing us?" she

asked, then answered in the same breath. "The

Klingons."

"From Kor's ship?" Kira shook her head.

"If they knew we were here, they'd either beam us out or

phaser us. No, this has to be someone who wants

something from us..." Their communicators chirped again,

strangely high and urgent. "Should we just ignore

them?" "Probably," Kira said. Her dark eyes

met Dax's in a mutually thoughtful look. "But

what if it's the group who took Bashir?" In

response, Dax tapped her communicator on.

"Jadzia Dax here," she said calmly.

"Identify yourself."

"I am sending coordinates." The shock of

hearing Gordek's gruff, graceless voice on the

other end of that connection was only exceeded by the shock

of his next words. "Come and help us, or I will have the

Cardassians destroy your ship and all aboard

it." Dax lifted her hand to break the connection.

"Car-dassians?" she asked Kira in

astonishment. "How could a membe r of epetai

Vrag's exiles have any control over the

Cardassians?"

"The same way he could have a subspace

communicator," Kira shot back, her face

hardening to reveal the ruthless guerrilla leader she'd

once been. BECAUSE he's been dealing with the

Cardassians all along." Dax blinked at her

for a long, disbelieving minute. "Dealing in what?

Armageddon isn't exactly brimming with

galactic treasures."

"That's what we're going to find out." The

Bajoran tapped her communicator pin on.

"Send your coordinates, Gordek," she said

shortly. "We'll be there." The Klingon grunted

and rattled off a string of planetary coordinates,

then cut the connection as rudely as he'd opened it,

giving Dax no chance to tell him that those numbers

meant nothing to her. "He must be using Cardassian

plotting data," she told Kira in frustration.

"I have no idea where this location is." "Could we

focus in on his communicator signal, if we could

get him to turn it on again?" Dax gave her

tricorder a jaundiced look. "Not unless

O'Brien beams down and fixes this first."

"I don't think the captain

will let me do that," said a totally

unexpected Irish voice from her communicator.

"But if you really want to have a heart-to-heart chat

with your friend Gordek, I may be able to get you there."

"Chief?." Dax

demanded. "Were you listening in on that transmission

from the Klingons?"

"We've been scanning every frequency for your

signal, old man, ever since the EM surge of the

comet impacts cleared." That was Benjamin

Sisko's familiar coffee-dark voice, sounding more

impatient than relieved. "What took you so long

to report in? Didn't you think we'd be worried

about you?" Kira and Dax exchanged slightly

guilty looks. "We

wanted to ascertain the condition of the Klingon

refugees at the main encampment first, sir,"

Kira said at last. "And give Dr. Bashir a

little more time to show up before you abandoned him?" It was never

easy to fool Sisko, Dax thought wryly,

especially when what you were trying to do would have been his

first instinct as well. "Are you two all right?"

Kira's answer to that was more confident, if no more

accurate. "Just a few bumps and bruises, sir.

Request permission to stay on planet and

investigate the nature of Gordek's

dealings with the Cardassians." "Granted with

pleasure, Major," Sisko said grimly.

"We're currently out of Kor's firing range,

so we can drop shields long enough to beam you and Dax

straight to the origination point of Gordek's

signal."

"Any idea

how many Klingons are with him, Captain?" Dax

asked. She heard the mutter of an unfamiliar

voice on the bridge, then Sisko said,

"Long-range sensors indicate at least a dozen

life-signs there, although not all of them are strong.

Watch yourself, old man."

"Yes, sir." Dax

dropped her hand from her pin and braced her aching

muscles for the jerk of transport. An instant

later, the smoke and downed trees of the tuq'mor

vanished, replaced by a crackling red-gold

inferno. Dax barely had time to squint her eyes

shut against the glare before a pair of fierce hands

seized her shoulders and dragged her closer to the

fire. "This is your fault!" Gordek's dark

mane of hair was half-seared on one side, but his

blistered face held more fury than pain. "Your

shield generator didn't protect us when

the comet came! Look what came of it!" "Look

what came of not telling us the truth!" Kira might

have been half the Klingon's size, but her determined

shove and angry scowl still backed him a step away

from Dax. With her vision tempered to the glare, Dax

could now see the charcoal ghosts of three pole

buildings engulfed in the flames. The sprawled

bodies of several dead Klingons rimmed the edge of

fire, as if they'd been dragged out only far enough

to be checked for life-signs before their rescuers

dropped them and went back for more. The injured had

been moved to the shelter of the one building left standing,

built where the damp wall of tuq'mor around this forest

clearing had deflected the cometary blast. A handful

of Klingon hunters looked up from that sanctuary,

then came to ring Gordek, Kira, and Dax in a

deadly circle. Dax took a slow, steadying

breath and turned to watch their backs, making sure the

phaser on her hip faced Kira rather than the

exiles. "Why is this our fault?" she demanded,

aiming the question at the hostile watchers rather than

Gordek. "We never claimed that shield would save

you from a direct impact. And we offered you

evacuation to our ship-- you're the one who insisted on

staying here!" That sparked a mutter of

unease around the ring of fierce, furrowed Klingon

faces. Dax pressed the advantage, pointing a

finger at the Cardassian communicator Gordek still

carried in one meaty fist. "If you would rather wait for the

Cardassians to evacuate you than have the Federation do

it, that's fine. But where are they now that you need them?

Are they braving

the Klingon blockade? Have they responded to your

calls for help?" It was a shot in the dark, but it

went home. Two of the hunters turned scowling

faces toward Gordek. "Why aren't the

Cardassians here?" one demanded. "We told them

we had the last geset for them days ago. Didn't

they promise to evacuate us?"

"That was before the Starfleet ship was

here!" Gordek snapped back at them. "So?

If our homeworld was dying, as they claim theirs is,

would we not invade Hell for the cure?" growled an

older, battle-scarred Klingon. He pulled out a

vial of golden brown fluid from one tattered

pocket and held it up to catch the firelight. Its

high-tech polytex surface glittered

anomalously bright in this primitive setting.

"What is the character of their honor, these Cardassians

you have bound us to, Gordek? They will not

brave a single Klingon ship for the drug they say

saves their children's lives! I say we let their children

die! He dropped the vial contemptuously to the

ground, then wrung a shout of protest out of

Gordek by smashing it with one heavy, booted foot.

"That is our passage out of here!" the Klingon house

leader growled as the frothy yellow liquid ran and

puddled underfoot. An unpleasantly caustic

smell rose up from it--not familiar, but

evocative of something else Dax knew. She

frowned and juggled out her mud-encrusted tricorder,

then ran a discreet analysis of the fluid running

between her boots. The display panel flickered, then

coughed up a response in enigmatic Vulcan

machine-code. The older hunter spat into the

spilled geset, making his opinion of it

offensively clear. "I see no Cardassian

ships here to rescue us," he said brusquely.

"All I see here is an outcast from a once-noble

Klingon House--a small creature who cannot

salute the sky." Gordek snarled in wordless anger

at that insult, his shoulders rolling for a roundhouse

punch that Kira's lifted phaser stopped in

midswing. The big Klingon took a step back,

glaring down at her and breathing hard between bared

teeth. "Our wounded die while we dither here! You

should be transporting them up to stasis on your ship,

as your doctor did before."

"No." Dax's harsh voice jerked the

Klingon's furious glare over to her instead. "I

may not know the character of the Cardassians' honor,

Gordek, but I know the character of Benjamin

Sisko's. He'll defy the blockade

to evacuate innocent Klingon refugees, but he

won't give shelter to a single Klingon

traitor." Her accusation ignited the roar of

response she'd expected from all the hunters.

"Who calls us traitors?" demanded a younger,

dark-skinned male. "We have done nothing to betray the

Empire!"

"Except sell this to the Cardassians."

Dax lifted her tricorder to show the frowning

Klingons the Vulcan chemical symbols it

displayed. "According to my instrument, this is the active

ingredient in that geset you just spilled on the ground.

And if any of us were Human, we would be dead now."

Kira scowled down at the yellow rivulets

trickling toward her boots, stepping back to make

sure none of them came inffcontact. "What is it?"

"Drevlocet," Dax said

simply.

Even the Klingons hissed in response to that

statement. "The neurotoxin that the Jem'hadar used

to murder hundreds of Humans at the Hjaraur

colony?" Kira growled. "Yes. One of the

native animals--I'm guessing the banchory,

considering the number of them you've killed--must

synthesize it naturally, as a defense against the

biting insects here. It's been outlawed in every

military convention signed in the Alpha Quadrant

since Hjaraur." Dax fixed Gordek with her

coldest look. "But you've been purifying it and

stocking it up for the Cardassians. What did they

promise you to get you to make this drug for them? It

must have been something worth turning down our offer of

evacuation."

"A return to the

Klingon homeworld?" Kira asked shrewdly.

Gordek snarled and spit toward their feet. "As

if I would gratify that fool Gowron by giving him

a chance to exile me again. No, they said they would

give us our own ship and escort us through the

wormhole, so we could disappear into the Gamma

Quadrant. It was a high price, but they said they

were desperate to cure their home planet of

ptarvo fever."

"Ptarvo fever?" That made Kira

snort. "That's about as lethal as a foot

cramp!" Another wash of discontent rumbled through the

surviving Klingon hunters. "Then why would they pay

so much for this drug?" a younger one demanded, brow

ridges clenched with suspicion. "Because it can be

chemically modified to attack almost any humanoid

race--Romulans, Vulcans, Trill, and

Klingons as well as Humans," Dax said

flatly. "In fact, the only species whose

neural matter

we know it can't affect are the Cardassians."

She aimed another ice-cold gaze at Gordek.

"Did you know, when you agreed to purify this drug for

them, that it could be turned against your own people ?"

"No!" The

exile's roar was loud, but the undertone of guilt in

it rang clear to Dax's ears. "How could I? We

didn't have the equipment to know they were lying!"

"No," said the older, scarred hunter. "But we

knew they insulted our honor by the way they forced us

to bargain our lives for this drug. We should have

refused to deal with them from the beginning." He turned

toward Dax, dark eyes narrowed in

suspicion. "We have been in exile many months.

Are the Cardassians at war with the Humans now?"

"Not yet," Dax

said. "But they are certainly at war with the

Klingons."

"Then they will

use this drug against the Klingon Empire?"

"Quite possibly," Kira

agreed, her voice caustic. "When it comes

to war, Cardassians don't pay much attention

to ethical conventions." The older Klingon took a

deep breath, eyes closing for a long, bitter

moment. "Epetai Vrag was right. We should have

resigned ourselves to this new life, and relinquished

any hope of honorable redemption. Now we have

endangered our entire race through our dishonorable

striving."

"And what if we have?" Gordek

snarled savagely. "Did the Klingon High

Council care that they had endangered us when they

abandoned us on this death-trap planet? Our crime

was misplaced loyalty, nothing more! Should that condemn

us to bear the brunt of

heaven's wroth and die beneath this Armageddon sky,

just for the sake of our honor?." Silence

followed his words, a silence filled with the sullen

crackle of dying flames. Then the scarred older

hunter spat again, this time aiming his contempt

directly at the leader of his house. "Batlh

potlh law' yin potlh pus." Then he raised his

long hunter's knife and stabbed it deep into his own

throat. Kira gasped and stepped back from the

suddecardassians." She aimed another ice-cold

gaze at Gordek. "Did you know, when you agreed

to purify this drug for them, that it could be turned against

your own people?"

"No!" The exile's roar

was loud, but the undertone of guilt in it rang clear

to Dax's ears. "How could I? We didn't have the

equipment to know they were lying!" "No," said the older,

scarred hunter. "But we knew they insulted our

honor by the way they forced us to bargain our lives for

this drug. We should have refused to deal with them from the

beginning." He turned toward Dax, dark eyes

narrowed in suspicion. "We have been in exile many

months. Are the Cardassians at war with the

Humans now?"

"Not yet," Dax

said. "But they are certainly at war with the

Klingons."

"Then they will

use this drug against the Klingon Empire?"

"Quite possibly," Kira

agreed, her voice caustic. "When it comes

to war, Cardassians don't pay much attention

to ethical conventions." The older Klingon took a

deep breath, eyes closing for a long, bitter

moment. "Epetai Vrag was right. We should have

resigned ourselves to this new life, and relinquished

any hope of honorable redemption. Now we have

endangered our entire race through our dishonorable

striving."

"And what if we have?" Gordek

snarled savagely. "Did the Klingon High

Council care that they had endangered us when they

abandoned us on this death-trap planet? Our crime

was misplaced loyalty, nothing more! Should that condemn

us to bear the brunt of

heaven's wroth and die beneath this Armageddon sky,

just for the sake of our honor?." Silence followed his

words, a silence filled with the sullen crackle of

dying flames. Then the scarred older hunter spat

again, this time aiming his contempt directly at the

leader of his house. "Batlh potlh law' yin

potlh pus." Then he raised his long

hunter's knife and stabbed it deep into his own

throat. Kira gasped and stepped back from the sudden

rush of bright Klingon blood, but Dax had been

steeled for it. She knew this proud warrior race

almost as well as she knew her own. From the moment she

had discovered what geset really was, she had known

no honorable Klingon could survive learning he had

doomed his own people with it. The ring of hunters watched

their eldest fall to his knees in indomitable

silence, then slowly collapse face down in the

frothy yellow toxin. Then, with a wordless glance of

agreement, all beside Gordek drew their own

knives. "Before I die, I will hold the knife for

those wounded who are still conscious," said the dark-skinned

youngest, and the others nodded. He turned slitted

obsidian eyes toward Dax. "You can transport

the others up to your ship to heal, but you must promise

afterwards to give them the truth. And a knife."

"I promise,"

she said in somber Klingon. "And I promise

also to sing the honor of your actions in every great house in

the Empire."

"Then it is a good day

to die." The young man nodded a silent farewell

to his companions, then turned on his heel

and headed for the survivors in the unburnt hut.

Kira frowned after him, then turned an urgent

gaze on Dax. "Do we have to?"

"Yes." Without flinching or protest, Dax

watched the last two hunters of Gordek's house

end their lives in equally dignified silence. Hers

was now the task of cha'dlch, the honor witness, even

if the battle here was only one of internal

principles. She let her cold gaze settle

afterwards on Gordek, still standing with clenched fists and

scowling down at his fallen hunters as if their deaths

had been an insult he could fight them over.

"Gordek," she said softly. "You also have a

knife." His fire-lit gaze lifted to meet

hers, swirling with resentment and frustrated fury.

"Yes," he said thickly. "And I will use it on

you! Dax took a quick step back when he launched

himself, reaching desperately for her phaser even as her

eyes judged the distance and her heartbeat drummed out

too late, too late, too late. She heard the

familiar shrill sound, but it wasn't until the

big Klingon actually thudded down across the seared

ground, sprawling limply over his own dead

warriors, that she realized Kira had pulled her

own weapon even earlier. "Is he dead?"

Dax demanded. "Of course not." Kira rolled her

victim off to one side, careful not to let any of his

clothing come in contact with the geset. "He's coming

back to the defiant with us." Dax frowned, her

stomach roiling with the injustice of four honorable

Klingons dead and this

SELF'-CENTERED traitor saved. "You're

really going to evacuate him from Armageddon?"

"That's right." Kira gave her a hard-edged

Bajoran smile. "I'm going to wake him up just

long enough for Odo to extract a confession that names the

Cardassians as his buyers. Then we're going

to extradite him--straight to Dahar Master

Kor's ship."

CHAPTER 9

"hear ME KOR. Now." Sisko never

particularly noticed how his voice sounded,

especially in the middle of a tense situation. The

only reason he suspected something about it changed was

the way his bridge officers and ensigns dove into their

work at times like these, as if Furies stood behind them

breathing fire down their necks. Even Worf

wasn't immune to the effect, although his stiff

posture made it clear he could have resisted that aura

of command if his officer's instincts ever told

him to. Sisko SUSPECTED he himself had looked

much the same way when he'd been on the receiving end of

Admiral Nechayev's steely voice only a

few hours before. "Excellent work, Captain," the

admiral had said, her ice-pale eyes gleaming

despite the cometary INTERFERENCE that danced through her

high-security transmission. "The loss of the

Victoria Adams--perhaps even the loss of her

passengers--may very well be worth finding out that the

Cardassians planned to smuggle drevlocet off

this Armageddon planet of yours. You may have just

saved millions of lives."

"Thank you, Admiral," Sisko said shortly.

"But don't start filing any obituaries. I

haven't given up on the crash survivors yet,

or on my away team." Nechayev arched her

eyebrows. "But I thought you said you had to drop back

into a depowered and cloaked orbit to evade the

Klingon blockade. How are you going to protect the

planet from comet impacts now?" Sisko

grimaced. "I don't know." Dropping abruptly

out of warp with his exhaust camouflaged and his shields

repolarized to blend in with the magnet-osphere had

seemed like the best way to evade Kor's drunken,

wild chase. It wasn't until after the

fact that he'd realized he'd once again trapped

himself into doing nothing. "I'll think of something."

"Perhaps," Nechayev suggested, "you could

negotiate with Dahar Master Kor." Sisko

eyed his sector commander in deep suspicion.

He'd never known the admiral to make a joke,

especially not in a situation as tense as this one, but

surely she couldn't be serious now. "What makes

you think the Klingons are going to be any more amenable

to negotiation now than when they fired on the

Victoria Adams?"

"Because

now," she pointed out gently, "you can inform them that this

planet is a natural source of drevlocet."

That brought Worf's head up from his intent

scrutiny of his piloting screens. "The Klingon

High Council swore to uphold the military

convention banning drevlocet!" he growled. "On the

Honor of the Emperor Kahless! They would never use

it."

"I am aware of that, Commander," the

admiral retorted. "In fact, it's all

that's keeping me from ordering five starships to take

control of that system immediately. I trust the Klingons

will protect Armageddon adequately,

once they know how dangerous the planet really is."

"That's why you want me to talk to

Kor," Sisko realized. "So he knows the real

reason why the Cardassians have been trying to goad

us into a fight."

"Precisely." The admiral

transferred her steely gaze back to Sisko.

"The stakes in this game are now very high, Captain.

Whatever you and Kor decide to do, make sure it

doesn't leave the system open to Cardassian

intervention again. And that," she added, tapping her

Starfleet Academy ring on the table in front of

her for emphasis, "is an order." Sisko

gritted his teeth and agreed, recognizing the

unwritten code that meant Nechayev really meant

it this time. And as soon as her transmission had

flickered out, he'd ordered the confessed traitor

Gordek transferred over to Kor's ship. It had

been his best stab at getting the Dahar Master

to turn a sympathetic eye on Armageddon's

evacuation. If Kor didn't respond to a warning

that could save millions of Klingons from dying in a

Cardassian chemical attack, he wasn't going

to respond to anything. Unfortunately, after an hour

of silence, that looked to be exactly the

case.

"Kor refuses to acknowledge our hail,

Captain." Thornton looked frustrated, as if

the Klingon's stubborn silence were his own personal

failure. "I've coded it as a priority

request, but the Klingons still won't answer."

"Are they jamming our transmission?"

"No, sir. Just

refusing to reply."

"Maybe Kor's still interrogating Gordek,"

O'Brien said doubtfully. "Just because he told

Odo all the gory details of his dealings with the

Cardassians doesn't mean he's going to be as

cooperative with Kor."

"Unlikely," Worf said. "We transported

the exile collaborator over three hours ago.

By now, Kor has either debriefed him or killed

him."

"Or both," Odo said dryly. Sisko rubbed

a hand across his beard, his gaze never leaving the

dangerous haze of cometary debris halo-+

Armageddon's horizon. "Ensign Osgood, how

much time do we have before the next fragment is scheduled

to impact the planet?" The science officer glanced

up from her computer model, looking

worried. "Almost forty-five minutes, sir--but the

next impact isn't a single fragment, it's a

cluster that stretches over two degrees of arc.

Unless we start soon, I'm not sure we'll have

time to deflect them all."

"Then we can't

afford to wait on Kor's convenience." Sisko

launched himself out of his chair, a flare of anger

burning off the stiffness that came from too long a

period of inactivity. "After seeing us fire on the

comet fragments that he blew apart, he must know what

we've been doing to protect the planet. He

might even know what maneuvers we've been using

to do it. The only thing he doesn't know right now is

exactly which comet fragments we need to deflect."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that,

Captain," Thornton said. "I've been seeing

a lot of diffuse scanner activity from the Klingon

ship in the past three hours. It looks like they're

tracking the whole cometary debris cloud now, just like

we are." "Kor is making sure he knows our

next move in advance." Sisko smacked a hand

against his useless weapons panel as he passed it,

making both Thornton and Osgood start. Odo

merely gave him an inquiring, upward

look. "So when we go to deflect those comets--"

"--Kor will obliterate

us," Worf finished grimly. Sisko scowled and

paced off another circuit of his bridge. "What

we need is a way to distract the Klingon

blockade long enough for us to deflect that cluster of

comets. The trouble is, if I were Kor, I wouldn't

be taking my eyes off those comets for a second.

What could possibly distract me and my whole

crew?"

"An act of God?"

asked O'Brien. "Like an ion storm or a

solar flare?" Sisko shook his head. "Hard

to duplicate in under an hour, Chief. What

else?"

"A summons

from the Emperor, or from Chancellor Gowron?"

Odo suggested. "Constable, if a summons came in

from Starfleet calling us away from Armageddon right

now, would you believe it?"

"No," Odo admitted. "Me, either. What

else?" A long silence followed his question this time. It

was broken at last not by words, but by one of the rarest

sounds Sisko had ever heard on the bridge of the

Defiant. Worf was laughing. It was a

full-throated roar of Klingon amusement, barely

distinguishable from a warrior's fighting bellow. It

made Odo jump and O'Brien curse, while

Sisko swung around to stare at his tactical

officer in disbelief and dawning hope. "What?" he

demanded. "What have you thought of?"

"The Batlh Jaj!" Worf's eyes gleamed with

the dancing red sparks that either danger or delight

could ignite. He saw Sisko's baffled look and

shook his head, so hard his braid whipped against his

shoulders. "The Batlh Jaj, Captain. The

Klingon Day of Honor. It is today!"

"What?" Two long strides took Sisko

over to the nearest panel, which happened to be

Osgood's. She gave him a quizzical look

when he leaned over her shoulder, but it wasn't the

arcane model of cometary orbits he was interested

in--it was the standard date-time readout in the corner of

her display screen. "Stardate 3692 is the Day

of Honor?"

"It varies from year to year, since the Klingon

calendar does not correspond to Federation standard,"

Worf informed him. "But the day we left Deep

Space Nine was wa'chorghdich--first day of the ninth

month. The Day of Honor falls three

days after that."

"I don't know about the wa'chorghdich," said

O'Brien. "But it has been almost exactly three

Standard days since we left the station." Adrenaline

began to fizz through Sisko's blood, born of both

excitement and foreboding. "Let me see if I can

remember my Klingon history," he said slowly.

""On the Day of Honor, the Klingons treat even

their fiercest enemies as blooded Klingon

warriors, with all the privileges and rights and

ceremonial duties that entails."" He threw a

challenging look at his tactical officer. "Are you

thinking what I'm thinking?" Worf's savage,

glinting smile told him the answer without any need

for words. "Oh, no." Odo's deep voice was

heavy with foreboding. "Commander, you're not going to make

us fight one of those hand-to-hand ritual battles

again, are you?"

"In reality, the Suv'batlh is not a

ritual," Worf replied. "It is a battle

to the death to resolve a challenge to one's honor."

"And on the Day of Honor, the combatants

don't need to be blooded Klingon warriors. They

can even," Sisko said in deep satisfaction, "be

Starfleet officers."

"Correct," said Worf. Sisko swung

to face Thornton again. "I want you to ram a

connection through to the Klingons--don't wait for them

to acknowledge it, just patch it straight into their display.

Can you do that?" The young sensor tech grinned back at

him, as if his reckless energy were contagious. "I can

feed it right through their viewing sensor circuits,

sir, so it REPLACES their external scan. The

only problem is, they can probably jam it within a

few minutes if they want to."

"They won't want to. Just give me a

minute's warning before we're online." Sisko

turned back toward Worf. "We'll need to hold

the Suv'batlh on the Klingons" ship, to distract

them while the Defiant deflects comets."

"Agreed. But allow me to point

out, sir, that if we win, we will not only have

defended our honor." Red battle sparks were

dancing in Worf's eyes again. "We will also have forced

Kor to grant any request we ask on that day."

"Any request?"

Sisko demanded. "Even cooperating with us to keep

the Cardassians away from Armageddon?"

"Yes, sir." Sisko's breath hissed between

clenched teeth as he weighed the odds and

juggled probabilities. "It's a gamble," he

said at last. "But I think we have a chance of

success. And if we fail, we'll still have managed

to distract the Klingons without making any overt acts

of war against them."

"Somehow, that wasn't what I had in

mind for my official Starfleet obituary,"

O'Brien commented. "Don't worry, Chief,"

Sisko told him. "You're not going. You've got

a family at home to worry about--"

"--and you'd like a chance to actually win this fight,"

O'Brien finished, sounding resigned. "Thank you,

sir. So who are you taking?"

"Worf," Sisko said, then glanced over his

shoulder inquiringly. He got a reluctant

Changeling nod in return, but the metal-hard

gleam in his constable's eyes told him his instincts were

correct. "And Odo. That way--"

"I've punched into the Klingon sensors,

Captain," Thornton interrupted, voice

calm despite the frantic way his fingers flew

across his controls. "Communications signal will be on

their viewscreen in ten seconds. Nine... eight.

.. seven..." Sisko took a deep breath and

prepared himself to glare straight at the

unoffending curve of Armageddon's rusty

atmosphere. He'd get no return signal from

this unauthorized transmission, at least at first.

"... three... two... on-line."

"Kor, this day is Batlh Jaj," Sisko

said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter with

Klingon-like brusqueness. "You cannot refuse a

challenge, even from a Starfleet officer who has

interfered in your blockade. I challenge you on

behalf of my insulted honor to engage in

Suv'batlh, three on three." He saw Worf

nod at him approvingly, although he wasn't sure

if it was his phrasing or his Klingon pronunciation that

was being evaluated. "Right here, Kor. Right now.

Suv'batlh." There was an agonizingly long

pause, during which the distant spiked bloom of an

upper-atmosphere comet impact flared at him from the

curve of Armageddon's smoke-clouded sky, a

foretaste of the disaster looming just outside the gravity

well. Then the screen rippled and became Kor's

broad-shouldered form, seated in his own stark command

chair. The older Klingon's furrowed face was

alight with surprise, respect, and laughter.

"A noble effort, Sisko!" Kor applauded in

the Klingon style, fist thumping on chest,

while the warriors around him watched and rumbled with

amusement. "Ironic, but still noble? Sisko narrowed

his eyes, ignoring the queasy ripple of unease that

twisted in his gut. "What do you mean,

"ironic"?"

"Ironic because your request comes just a little too

late." Kor's grin showed stained and straggling

teeth, but its honesty couldn't be doubted. "You may

have matched t he Klingon calendar to your Federation days

correctly, but you forgot about the length of the Klingon

day. The day of Batlh Jaj--what you call our

Day of Honor--ended ten minutes ago."

The devastation to Armageddon's surface seemed

endless. Kira had given up hoping to find any

sign of life among the burned and buried

wreckage. Ash carpeted what remained of the

tuq'mor like a silky gray shroud, and the mud no

longer steamed or simmered. A featureless black

cloud of ejecta had crept inland from over the ocean,

dimming the sky to dull amber. Only the hiss and

creak of cooling embers accompanied them as they

trudged along the dark tunnel that used to be a

banchory trail. That, and the distant, hollow boom

of comet fragments bursting not nearly far enough away.

Kira couldn't remember the last time her

body had hurt so much. Her ankles ached from

supporting her full weight on toes and arches

while climbing the jungle-gym roadblocks of

tuq'mor thrown down in their way; every other muscle

all the way up to her ass burned with a fatigue so

deep she almost couldn't imagine it fading. Dax had

made her last humorous comment uncounted hours ago.

Now, all Kira heard from the Trill was the

squelch and slap of her feet in the sticking mud, and

hoarse panting that sounded suspiciously like Kira's

own. if i ever get home, Kira thought, I will

never walk anywhere without pavement again. Dax's

grab at her sleeve stung the burns on her arm

and made her gasp. "Do you hear that?" the Trill

whispered, hauling her to a stop. Hissing through her

teeth, Kira pried the Trill's fingers from around

her scorched forearm. No, she wanted to grumble. I

don't hear anything but us hiking into oblivion! But

something in the dark wasteland silenced her--something about the

metronomic quality of the thunder she'd first taken for

exploding bolides. Something about the way it shivered

in her stomach and made the tuq'mor rattle. She

pushed Dax toward one singed-but-still-living hedge.

"Come on!" Finding cover within the blackened

tuq'mor was probably the easiest thing

Kira had done in the last seven hours. Wriggling

between knotted limbs like a fish darting among river

reeds, she hauled herself into what now served as the

topmost story. What parts of her weren't already

blackened by ash, burns, and mud readily picked

up a grimy coating of soot from the limbs and brush

that had taken the brunt of the last big air strike.

She crouched as low to the burned-out canopy as

exhausted muscles would allow, then hoped she

looked like any other clump of burned foliage as

she peered back down the trail. The banchory's

huge shadow preceded it. Dark as

the bordered path seemed to Kira's

night-adjusted eyes, it washed darker still, smothering

even the vestiges of detail. A figure, slim

and wild-haired, perched astride the moving mountain;

Kira doubted the rider would have stood out more clearly

on the brightest day. She didn't even have to worry

about missing the banchory's back when she leapt from the

tuq'mor. Her phaser jabbed the startled Klingon in

the spine before he could do more than jerk a startled look

over his shoulder. Kira used the flat of her hand

to push his chin forward, then looped her arm around his

throat for good measure. "Yes," she announced, very

close to his ear, "this is a real weapon.

No, I have no reservations about using it. You'd

better hope you can tell me something I l

whispered, hauling her to a stop. Hissing through her

teeth, Kira pried the Trill's fingers from around

her scorched forearm. No, she wanted to grumble. I

don't hear anything but us hiking into oblivion! But

something in the dark wasteland silenced her--something about the

metronomic quality of the thunder she'd first taken for

exploding bolides. Something about the way it shivered

in her stomach and made the tuq'mor rattle. She

pushed Dax toward one singed-but-still-living hedge.

"Come on!" Finding cover within the blackened

tuq'mor was probably the easiest thing Kira had

done in the last seven hours. Wriggling between knotted

limbs like a fish darting among river reeds, she

hauled herself into what now served as the topmost story.

What parts of her weren't already blackened by ash,

burns, and mud readily picked up a grimy

coating of soot from the limbs and brush that had taken

the brunt of the last big air strike. She crouched

as low to the burned-out canopy as exhausted muscles

would allow, then hoped she looked like any other

clump of burned foliage as she peered back down

the trail. The banchory's huge shadow preceded

it. Dark as

the bordered path seemed to Kira's

night-adjusted eyes, it washed darker still, smothering

even the vestiges of detail. A figure, slim

and wild-haired, perched astride the moving mountain;

Kira doubted the rider would have stood out more clearly

on the brightest day. She didn't even have to worry

about missing the banchory's back when she leapt from the

tuq'mor. Her phaser jabbed the startled Klingon in

the spine before he could do more than jerk a startled look

over his shoulder. Kira used the flat of her hand

to push his chin forward, then looped her arm around his

throat for good measure. "Yes," she announced, very

close to his ear, "this is a real weapon. No,

I have no reservations about using it. You'd better

hope you can tell me something I want to hear." The

Klingon spread both hands with fingers splayed--the

age-old symbol of unarmed threat. It was a

youthful female's voice that told her, "A

Human doctor named Bashir has sent me to find

his companions so they can wait out the comets in a

place of safety." K'Taran tipped just the

slightest glance back at Kira's startled face.

"Will that do?"

Nighttime cloaked the worst of the destruction, but a

few Klingon-tended fires and a renewed

blast of light in the southern sky let Kira pick

out enough details to know that honor hadn't spared

Rekan Vrag's encampment from Armageddon's

wrath. She clung uneasily to K'Taran's

middle as the banchory minced with surprising

delicacy around lumps in the carpet of ash. Kira

only recognized them as charred corpses with

considerable use of her imagination. It

wasn't worth the effort. As the beast finally slowed

to a shuffling standstill in what might have once been the

camp's center, Kira realized she didn't even

know for sure which part of the camp they were facing. Nothing

about the place looked the same; only the bottom-

most rootballs of the trees were left standing. Oh,

Prophets, I want to go home! "Major!

Commander!" Ledonne's slim, dark figure peeled

away from one of the still smoldering tree hovels.

Kira saw the eager relief in the young Human's

movements, knew what the nurse must be thinking when

she slowed abruptly and looked carefully from front

to rear on the banchory again. Still, it was Dax who

announced, almost cheerfully, "We found him," as the

banchory labored meticulously to its knees.

"Sort of." Kira slid to the ground, suppressing

a grimace at the packed-dirt fullness

in her knees and the overall anguish in the soles of

her feet. "K'Taran says Dr. Bashir sent

her to get us." She caught at the banchory's

small, conical ear for support in the hopes none

of the approaching Klingons would sense her weakness.

"There are caves several kilometers west of here.

They'll be protected from the explosions--safe from

anything but a direct ground strike. There's room

enough there for everyone." Everyone who was left, at least.

Kira could count the gathered faces on both hands.

She looked around for epetai Vrag, and found her

standing stiffly near the middle of the tiny crowd.

"She's lying." Rekan didn't even move her

eyes toward Kira.

K'Taran, proudly matching her grandmother's

glare, hopped to the ground beside Kira and lifted her

chin. "An honorable Klingon does not lie." "And

I say again"--Rekan bared teeth still sharp

despite her age--"you are lying." Kira felt

K'Taran flash with anger hot enough to reignite the

foliage. Stepping quickly away from the banchory,

Kira threw up one elbow to halt the girl's

forward surge, and thanked the Prophets when

K'Taran stopped without a protest. Kira was in

no shape to reinforce the suggestion. "What

possible motive does she have to lie to us?" she

asked Rekan. The old matriarch looked as though

she wanted to spit. "Dishonor needs no

motive."

"You have no right to question my honor! This time,

K'Taran shrugged off Kira's restraining arm and

lunged forward to shove aside the two adults standing

between her and Rekan. "I stand here, do I not?" she

snarled. "I have tied my life to this cursed

planet. I held my head proudly while our

ancestors' keep was burned and our family name

shattered and thrown to the dust. What more would you have of

me?" "Honor does not abandon its House!"

Rekan's eyes gleamed with a passion brighter than

all the stars Armageddon had thrown down on them.

"Honor does not bend law to whatever meaning suits

it."

"Law said only that we

should remain exiled on this planet," K'Taran

reminded her. "Law never stated that we must

necessarily die."

"The intent of a command is as

important as the words." Kira blurted a

disbelieving laugh without having meant to. "That's

what this is all about?" she asked, limping

away from the banchory to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with

K'Taran. "Because Gowron expected you to be

killed here, you're not allowed to take action

to prevent it?" Rekan lifted her eyes to a

place just above Kira's head, not even deigning

to meet her gaze. "I will not have this House judged as

being without honor," she stated grimly. "I will not have

this family go to Sto-Vo-Kor and recite

to Kahless how we tried to trick honor--how we

held hostages unrelated to our battle and tried

to run from our duty like Ferengi picking holes in a

contract of their own making." K'Ta ran moved in

front of her grandmother's stare. The electricity when

their eyes met made Kira's stomach twist. "You

do not believe I am lying." The girl's voice

sounded only hurt, and not as angry as Kira had

expected. "You fear I'm telling the truth--that there

actually is some chance for life." For the first time,

Kira glimpsed what might have been the love

fueling this angry war between them. "I fear that you are

wrong, "Rekan almost whispered. "I fear we will

die while fleeing, irrevocably disgraced."

"Shouldn't everyone be allowed to

choose their own path?" That was a question that had gnawed

at Kira since Rekan's first refusal

to evacuate her clan. "Is it honorable to force

your own fears on the rest of them?" Rekan hissed

at her through the darkness. "Swallow your bile. You

know nothing of honor."

"I know

that my people can feel right and wrong inside their own

hearts," Kira shot back. Fear, anger, and

fatigue stripped her of all social graces.

It was all she could do not to shake the older Klingon.

"We don't need a High Chancellor or anyone

else to tell us how to be honorable. Are Klingons

so simple that they can't decide that for themselves?"

Rekan's backhanded blow didn't surprise

Kira so much as the raw force in the old woman's

swing. She was on the ground, stunned and blinded with

pain, before her conscious mind even identified what

had smashed her down. "Be glad you are not a

Klingon," the epetai's scorn rained like

comet-fire from above her. "I would feed your own heart

to you where I stand." And Kira heard her own voice

say groggily, "I accept." Her vision cleared

with painful slowness, seeming somehow brighter and less

focused than it ought to be. But the shock and

suspicion on Rekan Vrag's face was

unmistakable, even through a haze of pain and

rattled thinking. "Your challenge to combat," Kira

continued, more carefully. "I accept." The epetai

frowned. "I did not challenge you!"

"You struck me." It was one of those moments Odo

would have scoffed at as being more creative than was good for

her. Some disconnected part of her kept spinning out the

words, with no particular concern for the battered body still

splayed out on the ground. "When one Klingon

strikes another, it means you want to do combat."

"You are not a

Klingon!" Rekan countered. And at last

Kira's instincts let the rest of her in on what

they were doing. "Batlh Jaj." The silence that

crashed down among them was almost hard enough to hurt.

Certainly heavy enough to crush most of the breath from

Rekan's lungs; her voice was thin when she said,

"You cannot conduct SUV'BATLH. There are only

two of you." "Three." Even Kira felt the

hurt that must have throbbed in Rekan when K'Taran

stepped forward. The older Klingon growled and swiped

at the air; Kira forced herself to crawl to all

fours, then slowly to her feet. "If we win,"

Kira said, moving to form a bridge between K'Taran

in front of her grandmother and Dax still waiting by their

banchory, "then that will mean our honor is

more true. We can lead anyone who wants to follow

us to K'Taran's refuge, and you won't do anything

to stop us." Rekan didn't nod. "And if I

win?"

"Then we all die." It was the answer that

had been true since before the challenge was even

leveled. Kira pulled herself as tall as her aching

muscles would let her. "I believe the choice of

battlefield is mine."

"TEN MINUTES!" It was a simultaneous

exclamation from at least three of the Defiant's

officers. Odo said the words in frustration,

O'Brien in disgust, but their voices were almost

completely overridden by Worf's furious roar of

indignation. Sisko was the only one who remained

silent, keeping his gaze locked on Kor's

until the uproar on both ships subsided

into uneasy silence. "I never thought to see a day when

Klingons hid like cowards behind the letter of the law," he

said at last, and had the satisfaction of seeing

Kor's laughter wiped abruptly from his eyes.

"What does the Day of Honor really mean? That it

is the only day on which Klingons will behave

honorably?" A snarl whistled between Kor's

clenched teeth. "Take care what you say,

Benjamin Sisko. If you were a Klingon, that would be

an insult worthy of Suv'batlh on any day."

"Would it?" Worf growled, before Sisko could

reply. "Then allow me to say that I, Worf,

son of Mogh, never thought to see a day when Klingons

hid like cowards behind the law, acting as ifbatlh

Jaj were the only day on which they needed to behave

honorably!" Kor crashed the mug he was holding

against the arm of his chair, splashing dusky blood

wine out in a violent spray. Anger had darkened his

broad face to almost the same shade. "You insult

my honor, Worf son of Mogh!"

"Good," said the Klingon

tactical officer between his teeth. "That was my

intention." Kor fell abruptly silent, staring at

them with a flicker of wariness breaking through the

wine-soaked fury in his face. After a moment's

pause, however, he acknowledged Worf's challenge

with a stiff, ceremonial nod. "As the one whose

honor has been challenged, we hold the

Suv'batlh on my territory. Your party will beam

over in fifteen minutes, Worf, son of Mogh,

armed and ready to fight. Qapla'!" The connection

sliced off, leaving the bridge of the Defiant

suspended in disbelieving silence. "You did

it, Worf," O'Brien said at last, sounding

dumbfounded. "You actually got Kor to accept the

challenge." Sisko let his breath trickle out,

feeling his jaw muscles quiver with the release of

accumulated tension. "Now all we need to do is win

it. Or at least entertain Kor long enough for the

Defiant to finish sweeping up that comet duster."

He vaulted out of his command chair, fiercely eager

to be off the bridge and accomplishing something.

"Worf, Odo, you're with me. Osgood,

Thornton, plot the fastest deflection course you

can through that cluster, and don't worry about keeping out of

sight of the Klingons. Just try not to use photon

torpedoes unless you have to. O'Brien, you've got

the conn. Call Clark and Nensi up to man

navigations and weapons while we're gone." His

chief engineer winced, uncomfortable as always with the

assumption of command, even though he was technically the

highest-ranking member left of Sisko's

decimated crew. He swung around at his station

to watch as they headed for the turbolift. "Captain,

don't you want a subcutaneous transmitter?

How else will you know when we're done chasing comets?"

"It will not matter," Worf said sternly.

"Suv'batlh cannot be conceded. It can

only be fought to the finish." "Oh." O'Brien

looked as glum as if he'd just been condemned to a

long prison sentence, Sisko noted in amusement.

"Well, in that case, good luck and--er-- K

apla. " was Odo snorted his scorn at that

send-off, but followed Sisko and Worf into the

turbolift with no visible reluctance. The doors

hissed shut, locking the three of them in tense,

prebattle silence. Odo broke it at last, his

voice gruff. "I assume that, since this is a

ritual combat, I won't be permitted to use my

shape-shifting abilities to win it."

"No." Worf's voice was equally brusque and

businesslike. "A Klingon warrior does not

attack by subterfuge. Any change in shape would

be considered a deceit and would disqualify you from the

Suv'batlh."

"Too bad," Odo said. "I might be able

to look just like a Klingon warrior, but that doesn't

mean I can fight like one." Especially true,

Sisko knew, because the Constable would refuse to wield

any weapons. Worf frowned across at the

Changeling, but it was a thoughtful rather than an angry

look. "Klingons measure their worth as warriors

by the strength and valor of their enemies. The

honor that accrues in ritual combat increases as the

task becomes more difficult. I think it would be

acceptable to ignore any blows that do not actually

decapitate or dismember you."

"Good. Then I won't have to actually wear

armor." Odo followed the others onto C

Deck, heading not for the main transporter room but

for the equipment bay next to it where they had a

closet-sized clothing replicator capable of

creating authentic Klingon outfits. As he went,

his dun-colored Bajoran uniform swelled and

shifted, turning to polished lacquer plates in

gleaming shades of ebony and maroon. Fortunately,

Klingon weapons and armor were stock items in the

replicator's data banks, along with most

clothing items from known space. Worf was humming as

he waited for his weapons to be made, a song so

deep and tuneless that it had to be a Klingon

battle-chant. "Klingon armor and bat'leth,

suitable for ritual combat," Sisko told the

replicator when it was his turn. A moment later

he was settling chest-armor over his shoulders, making

sure all the side-latches were snugged tight.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd done this over

the last few years, sparring Dax in

various holo-suite recreations. This time was

different, however. This time his life really would depend

upon what he was wearing. He became acutely

aware, as he hefted the shallow helmet whose curving

cheek-plates had been designed more for intimidation

than protection, that this was armor meant for warriors

whose arteries ran deep under leather-tough ligaments and

whose skeletons already made bony protective

plates around their vital organs. The warm pulse

of blood beneath the skin of his throat, a mammalian

evolutionary quirk he'd never had cause

to regret before, suddenly seemed like an invitation

to disaster. "Second thoughts, Captain?" Odo

asked, when he stepped out. Sisko glanced up at

his security chief, startled, then realized he'd

put on and taken off his spiked gauntlet three

times, searching for a comfortable fit that just didn't exist.

Worf paused on the threshold of the clothing

replicator, looking dismayed. "Only about the

armor." Sisko motioned Worf into the machine,

managing an almost-real smile. It was ironic that the

two warriors in their party with the least mortal

weaknesses were depending on him for their morale. He

rubbed a hand across his exposed abdomen and sighed.

"I'll just have to hope Kor went to school

before the Klingons were teaching Human anatomy."

"I shall endeavor," Worf said from inside the

replicator, "to make sure you do not have to face the

Dahar Master personally, Captain. You are as

goodwith a bat'leth as any Human I've seen,

but Kor would have you disarmed and at his mercy within...

minutes." Sisko raised an eyebrow at him as

he stepped out. "Why do I get the feeling you were about

to say 'seconds," Mr. Worf?." The

Klingon's chagrinned look told him he was right.

"It is not that I doubt your skill, Captain. But

to become a Dahar Master, you must have fought a

hundred battles, survived a hundred

Suv'batlh, and trained a hundred blooded

warriors. No amount of blood wine can dull the

fighting instincts of such a warrior."

"Are you sure you can survive for more

than a few minutes in a fight with him,

Commander?" Odo demanded, never shy about asking

embarrassing questions. "No," Worf said frankly.

"But in Suv'batlh, it is the overall outcome that

counts, not the individual win-hers and losers. If

you and the captain can surprise your opponents and win

your matches, then it does not matter that Kor

defeats me." "Unfortunately,"

Sisko said, "that is a rather big "if."" He

slid on his helmet, then hardened his face to the

expressionless mask that served him so well during

space battles. "Gentlemen, let's go defend

our honor."

He'd stopped being physically conscious of the pain

what seemed a whole lifetime ago. K'Taran,

following his instructions with stern determination, reduced

the fracture with an ease Bashir almost envied; the

ADVANTAGES of physical strength. Then, after

she left with one of the sluggish banchory trailing

behind, Bashir had taken further advantage of

Klingon prowess by coaxing one of the boys to carry him

around the massive caverns to check on the

Victoria Adams's crew and his xirri

patients. Bad enough that he didn't have the proper

equipment to do any of them any good--the traumatic

relocation to this damp, cool chamber wasn't helping

the wounded, either. He almost felt guilty accepting

blood from two hale and youthful volunteers,

considering he had no such panacea to offer the xirri.

He didn't specifically remember returning

to his own little bloodstained corner, and hoped

fervently he hadn't lost consciousness before tending the

last of the patients. It all seemed so

unfair. If he was going to break a leg during a

planetary mission, why the hell couldn't he have done

it when no one else needed his services? Or, at

the very least, have done it so that he didn't

hemorrhage a liter of blood in the process?

He wrestled his thoughts back to the moment, and

concentrated instead on the small, neat movements of the

painted xirri near his feet. The little native

doctor--a male, Bashir had finally determined

when he'd been able to catch a glimpse of

hemipenile bulges while they made their rounds--

had found a piece of what looked like broken chert,

and now used it to nick carefully, gently at the

fabric of Bashir's trouser leg. He'd already

extended the doctor's original cut clear to the

groin, and was almost finished in the other direction,

slicing patiently down toward the ankle and the

terminal hem. I've had nurses who weren't so

thoughtful. He certainly couldn't argue with the xirri's

diagnosis--even with the fracture reduced, his

knee had swollen dramatically. Another few

centimeters, and the clothing would have compromised his

circulation. "Thank you." The xirri blinked huge

eyes at him, with no expression Bashir could

readily discern. Then it bent again to its work,

tongue flicking rhythmically. Small, unglazed

dishes filled with a foul-smelling mash littered the

cave floor around them, the contents burning with an

almost invisible flame. Bashir patted around him in

the thin, watery light, wondering what trick of

nature made all the illumination seem to pool in

his lap and run no further. By the time his hand thumped

against the open Medkit, his thoughts had already staggered so

far in search of that explanation that he couldn't quite

remember what he'd been looking for. A cool,

gray-green hand slipped past his own, pulling his

attention toward the instruments laid out in their tray.

The scalpels. Of course--he'd wanted something a

bit better suited to cutting. But when he tried

to lever himself away from the wall to lean forward toward his

ankle, a great spasm of pain ripped up his leg

and knocked him back again. God, this was so

embarrassing. He was supposed to know enough to foresee

what kind of movements would send him crawling out of his

skin. Opening his eyes, he found the xirri watching

him with its tongue coiled curiously just outside its

tiny mouth. It turned the

ned when he'd been able to catch a glimpse of

hemipenile bulges while they made their rounds--

had found a piece of what looked like

broken chert, and now used it to nick carefully,

gently at the fabric of Bashir's trouser leg.

He'd already extended the doctor's original cut

clear to the groin, and was almost finished in the other

direction, slicing patiently down toward the ankle

and the terminal hem. I've had nurses who weren't

so thoughtful. He certainly couldn't argue with the

xirri's diagnosis--even with the fracture

reduced, his knee had swollen dramatically.

Another few centimeters, and the clothing would have

compromised his circulation. "Thank you." The xirri

blinked huge eyes at him, with no expression

Bashir could readily discern. Then it bent again to its

work, tongue flicking rhythmically. Small,

unglazed dishes filled with a foul-smelling mash

littered the cave floor around them, the contents

burning with an almost invisible flame. Bashir

patted around him in the thin, watery light, wondering

what trick of nature made all the illumination

seem to pool in his lap and run no further. By the

time his hand thumped against the open Medkit, his thoughts

had already staggered so far in search of that explanation that

he couldn't quite remember what he'd been looking for.

A cool, gray-green hand slipped past his own,

pulling his attention toward the instruments

laid out in their tray. The scalpels. Of course

--he'd wanted something a bit better suited

to cutting. But when he tried to lever himself away from the

wall to lean forward toward his ankle, a great spasm

of pain ripped up his leg and knocked him back

again. God, this was so embarrassing. He was supposed

to know enough to foresee what kind of movements would send him

crawling out of his skin. Opening his eyes, he found the

xirri watching him with its tongue coiled curiously

just outside its tiny mouth. It turned the

piece of chert over and over in nimble fingers, then

scooted slightly closer to taste the laser

scalpel with its tongue. It tugged at the scalpel

very gently. The piece of chert ended up in

Bashir's lap almost as an afterthought. "Here..."

He tightened his grip just enough to make the native

pause and look up at him. "You activate it like

this." He turned the instrument until the power switch

faced the xirri doctor, then turned the scalpel

carefully away from them both and depressed the switch

with his thumb. A thin, glowing blade of light hissed

inffbeing from the end. "Use it like a normal knife, but

for God's sake be careful--it'll cut through bone and

fingers just as easily as it will my pants!"

Deactivating the scalpel with almost

ritualistic care, the xirri held it at a

respectful arm's length as it repositioned itself beside

Bashir's leg. "It's a shame they can't talk."

Bashir's thoughts seemed to be ringing, his head full

of broken glass as he looked meticulously

left and right in search of the voice he only

half-remembered. He found George just inside the

touch of the tiny lights, his head resting back against the

same wall that supported Bashir, his hands neatly

folded atop his knees. "The Federation may be

lenient when it comes to determining sentience, but I have a

feeling K'Taran's elders are going to want some more

quantifiable evidence than kindness and a good bedside

manner." For some reason, it didn't even seem

odd to be sitting in the blood-smelling dark

debating sentience

ethics with a Starfleet demigod while he felt

beside him for the tricorder he couldn't remember last

using. "So you believe they're sentient?" he asked

George. But quietly, as though their discussion

might embarrass the xirri. George turned a

wry look toward Bashir across the darkness.

"Don't you?" He finally found the tricorder

close against his left hip. He wondered if he'd

snugged it there for safekeeping, or simply

dropped it the last time he'd slipped away from

consciousness. Not that it mattered. The device had

reverted to whatever dementia had addled its brain

hours ago. A frightfully low blood pressure

played hide-and-seek behind a skirl of signal so

strong it almost washed his screen to white. By the time the

xirri tapped the tricorder's casing to gain his

attention, Bashir could barely tell he was a

Human through the confusion of contradictory readings.

Dropping the useless tricorder into his lap, he

forced a wan smile when the xirri politely offered

the butt end of the deactivated scalpel. "Thank

you again." His fingers felt cold when he reached for the

instrument, and his thoughts ricocheted briefly off the

idea that all his heat had collected into a burning

coil by his knee. But whatever rationality he'd

seen in that thought evaporated as he watched the xirri

pick up the empty water bottle and toddle off

toward the Cavern's water supply. Even the

exertion neces sary to follow the xiri's movement with his

eyes proved too much to sustain. Leaning his head

back against the wall again, he listened to the shiver of his

bones as the planet rumbled with distant damage.

"When I was young," George offered, his voice warm

and soothing, "I served under a man who had

a very flexible view of the Prime Directive."

He laughed softly. "He didn't have much patience

for politics and rhetoric. If he knew that

innocent lives were being threatened, he'd move heaven

and earth to save them, and the Prime Directive be

damned." Behind the darkness of his closed eyes,

Bashir half-remembered, half-dreamed an

image of Starfleet as it must have been on the

frontier. "He sounds like a great man."

"He

was. The best." George was quiet again, and when

he finally spoke, his deep voice smiled. "He

would have had a field day with Armageddon." Bashir

would have gladly given it to him. The planet, the

comets, the killing, impenetrable foliage, the

spiraling, threatening slash of fiery rain. Ice as

hard as boulders, boulders the size of houses,

shattering the mantle and spewing megatons of ash and

rock and gas back into an atmosphere growing

wintery cold for lack of sun. Feverish dozing

offered a nightmarish flash of Kira and Dax

swept up in a vortex of fire. He jerked himself

awake, leaping away from that image, and his hand seized

convulsively on the tri-corder still open in his lap.

It chirped politely, scrolling out a

neat queue of test results. Bashir stared at the

device for nearly thirty seconds, trying

to remember why seeing the tricorder hum through its

paces surprised him. It certainly wasn't the

dismal readings and predictions it produced--his

white-cell count was no higher than he'd already

suspected, and it wasn't like he'd expected any

better from his serum 02. Cupping the tricorder between

both hands, he lifted it and passed it across his

torso. "Why am I not getting interference?" he

asked aloud. "What?"

"My tricorder..." He tipped it to

face George as the older man scooted

closer. "It hasn't worked since I left the

Vrag main encampment. But now..." As though the

tricorder heard him, a long scrawl of pointless

code sketched itself through the middle of the readings,

swelling like an amplified virus until it had

taken over the small device's brain. Cool

water splashed across his exposed leg, startling him.

Bashir looked up, catching the painted xirri's

indifferent gaze, and the tricorder hissed with renewed

interference. George's thoughtful, "I wonder

what's happened now," barely penetrated the

pulselike hammer of Bashir's thoughts.

It had been the xirri patients the tricorder first

refused to scan. And when he'd first been carried

into this cavern, before any xirri had come close to him

down heretohadn't the tricorder produced

perfectly coherent scans in those first few

minutes? He made himself really look at the bands

of distortion while the xirri neatly irrigated his

leg precisely as he'd done himself a few hours

before. What did this look like? What could this be that

assumption simply hadn't let him see?

Medical school. A long, painfully boring

lecture on reducing tricorder interference

patterns that might crop up during

extravehicular triage missions. Oh, God,

he'd barely listened because he'd been so worried about

an upcoming xenosurgery rotation, and this had struck

him as something better left to the engineers, But now his

memory--which misplaced so little, even when it was only

half-overheard behind a bout of narcissistic

fretting seven years ago--exploded the answer

across the front of his brain like a supernova.

"Radio waves..." High frequency radio

waves, intersecting the tri-corder's fragile

sensory circuits. George dutifully held the

small device while Bashir popped

open the casing over the brains of his tricorder. "A

doctor and an engineer," the older officer commented

playfully after watching Bashir work for several

minutes. "You're a man of many talents."

"You have no idea." By the time he mated the

interference signal through the tricorder's

translator and back, the result through the

tricorder's speaker was no more than squeaky,

scratchy nonsense. The xirri recoiled

slightly, as if from fingernails on a blackboard.

Bashir reached out to catch its hand before it could scurry

away. "I know this is just a matter of sampling" he

said, keeping his eyes and smile on the xirri in the

hopes it might realize he was speaking to it. It

licked once, twice at its huge corneas, but

didn't move away. "Once enough language goes

into the translator, something I can understand comes out. So

I hope it works the same way for you. Is there

something I cando to keep you talking? To make you feed

enough data--"

"wish less-than wi/lly, regretfully

greater-than for more true communication--" The voice

seemed almost too small to be real. No emotion,

no inflection, just words spelled out as mechanically as

type on a bare computer screen. But

words! Bashir's heart raced against his breastbone.

George hissed a little sound of surprise.

"wnoises less-than loudly, vocally greater-than

made become a language? Such kindness comes"

George couldn't hold himself silent any longer.

"Hello?" The voice snapped silent. The

tricorder blinked, but said nothing. "Can you hear us?"

Bashir fought the urge to say the words too loudly,

but found it a hard impulse to ignore. "Can you

understand what I'm saying?" The xirri licked its

eyes again, rapidly, in nervous stutters. "Can you

less-than plainly, clearly greater-than hear

me?" Bashir exchanged a triumphant glance with

George, smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks.

"Yes."

"These less-than inanimate, unliving

greater-than things" The xirri whisked its tail around

in front to hover the tip above the tricorder

arrangement. "These give you my words?"

"Yes. I..."" For the briefest

instant, he thought of explaining the differences between

sound waves and electromagnetism, and instead said

only, "I can't hear your words with my ears without the

help of these things." The xirri nodded as though that

only made sense.

"Before this, I was only aware of less-than

vocal, random greater-than noises from your kind.

We did not know this was less-than intelligent,

rational greater-than speaking." No more than the

Klingons would have expected to discover xirri radio

language in their silences. "You led us to these

caves," Bashir said, gesturing around them. "Do you

understand what's happening outside?"

"We have not

less-than personally, recently greater-than seen

fire falling from the sky." Its tail swept into a

neat bracelet around its ankles as it settled

back on its haunches. "But we have less-than

old, remembered greater-than stories of such fires

from the past. These caves are where the xirri are told

to go."

"Then why didn't

you? When the first comets fell, there were xirri

outside who were injured." He thought about the

smoke-poisoned female, and the child this very xirri had

carried all the way from the blast crater. "Why

didn't you all come to the caves then?"

"Many less-than elderly, young greater-than did.

Others went

in search of our less-than alien,

childlike greater-than friends. They have no less-than

old, remembered greater-than stories to protect

them. Some were not among us, and we feared they would

burn." He remembered K'Taran's voice

saying, We knew the xirri would be needing help.

So we came. But it was George who finally said, very

gently, "The xirri have been good friends to the

Klingons." The painted xirri cocked its head,

reminding Bashir of nothing so much as a serious child

considering the weightiness of its reply. "The sky

has welcomed them with less-than fierce, renewing

greater-than fire," it said after a very long

time. "If that does not forge them into oneness with the

xirri, what will?" Bat'leths met and locked with a

clash of steel that thundered through the cold, dry air of the

Klingon ship. "You fight well," said the stocky

warrior scowling across that expanse of

blood-splattered metal at Sisko. The thick

tendons of his neck had made Sisko's slashing

cut a minor annoyance rather than a telling blow, but

it had still wiped the smug arrogance from his face. "For a

Human."

"Thanks." Blood dripped

down Sisko's face and seeped its salt taste

between his gritted teeth, but it didn't

impair his vision. The spiraling cheek-plate

he'd thought was ornamental had stopped a wicked

thrust of the pronged bat'leth point just short of his

eye. His shoulder muscles burned with exhaustion and

trembled with the effort of holding off his attacker, but his

grin was still exultant. Five minutes into the

Sul'batlh was longer than he'd ever expected

to last. Much of the credit for his survival had to go to the

space in which they fought. He'd known that Jfolokh-

class Klingon ships were small, but he'd never

seen the inside of one before. It was a single cramped

and cluttered deck, inhabited by a minimal crew of

five in addition to its captain. As a result,

Sisko and his opponent--a middle-aged Klingon

engineer even more beer-bellied than Kor himself--had

ducked and chopped their way through the various ship's

stations in a chaos of swinging bat'leths and ducking

Klingon ensigns.

With the steely clash of their weapons silenced,

Sisko could hear the disrupted sounds of Odo's

hand-to-hand battle with the young Klingon tactical

officer and Worffs more titanic clash with Kor. The

Dahar Master had refused to pursue his challenger,

forcing Worf to come forward and attack him or risk

forfeiting the Suv'batlh for cowardice.

Despite Korr's stolid stance, however, there was

nothing indolent or inebriated about his flying

bat'leth. The constant, shattering crash of his blade

against Worf's at times blended inffcontinuous

metallic thunder . "Captain!" The young Klingon

manning the sensor desk swung around, dark braids

flying in alarm. "The Starfleet vessel is moving

away at full impulse speed! Kor grunted,

dropping to one knee to avoid a desperation roundhouse

swing by Worf, then lunged up from below with the point of his

blade. Worf flung himself backward, tripping

over the empty chair of the weapon's console. He

brought his bat'leth up just in time to avoid a wicked

downward stab at his supine body, deflecting

Kor's blade just enough to skate off his ribcage.

Another bloody slash was added to the magenta

lacework he already wore. "Ignore the ship."

Kor took a step back, catching his breath and

incidentally giving Worf a chance to scramble back

to his feet. "If we win, they leave no matter

where they are. If we lose, they go wherever they like.

Watch them for signs of attack, that is all."

They'd played this same scenario out several times

now, the gasping old Dahar Master and the less

accomplished but far more fit Starfleet

officer. Each break in their furious fencing grew

longer and each interval of blade-work shorter, giving

Sisko a shred of hope that Worf might yet win,

if he could just wear Kor down. Odo, on the other

hand, was already teetering on the verge of failure. His

long-armed and lithe young opponent had settled on a

strategy of lunging and striking, oblivious

to Odo's apparently ineffectual attempts

to block him. Odo had reformed the rents in his

mock-armor so many times that it had lost all its

detail now, blurring into a generic solid

surface, randomly swirled with black and red. The

constant platinum flashes of protoplasmic

matter beneath it, revealed every time a blow sliced through

him, seemed to egg his Klingon opponent on

to wilder and wilder swings. Sisko doubted the constable

could hold his shape much longer. Not that he was in much

better condition, with his straining lungs and the dry rasp

in his throat that came from trying to breathe the

Klingons" harsher atmosphere. With a painful

squeal of gouged metal, Sisko's bat'leth

slipped across the engineer's blood-wet blade and

slid violently off to one side. He cursed and

swung toward the Klingon's knees, praying that his

opponent's defensive instincts would yank

him back rather than aiming his descending blade at

Sisko's undefended torso. He was

half-successful--his opponent did jerk away,

but not fast enough to keep the flat of his blade from

unintentionally slamming into Sisko's solar plexus.

All the breath from his lungs exploded out, making his

vision darken abruptly. Choking, Sisko tried

to stagger backward, away from wherever his opponent now

was. Fortunately, the small Klingon ship chose

that moment to stagger, too, its hull thundering with a barely

shielded explosion. "What was that?" Kor bellowed,

giving the sprawled and even bloodier Worf another

respite to climb to his feet. Seeing that his own

opponent had swung around to scowl at his readouts with

single-minded engineering focus, Sisko clung,

gasping, to the back of an empty console. The

black edges faded from his vision just in time to let him

see the violent spray of glittering white

fragments that erupted across the sensor's field of

view. It looked like a firework made of ice.

"Comet impact," the engineer said unnecessarily.

"oiccyah/ghuy'cha' gu'valthst" Kor's curses

were as magnificently extravagant as his flowing

silver-streaked mane. With absentminded ease, he

warded off a slashing attack from Worf,

then smacked his bat'leth against the back of his

pilot's chair to express his displeasure. "You're

supposed to be flying us through these things, D'jia, not

watching the fight!" She curled her lip without ever

breaking her gaze away from the main viewscreen.

"What fight? All I've seen is a bat'leth

practice, and not a very good one at that."

"Answer my question!" Kor

snarled, seemingly oblivious to Worf's

cat-silent approach right up to the second when he

turned and struck at the Starfleet officer, hurling

him halfway across the deck with the power of his bat'leth

blow. Blood trickled from Worf's nostrils.

"Why are we suddenly hitting comets?" "We're

not." Another shuddering impact hit the Klingon

ship, making the female pilot curse pretty

magnificently herself. "They're hitting us. All

of a sudden, none of them are where they're supposed

to be!"

"Well,

take evasive action!"

"I'm trying! The Klingon ship looped and danced

through the thickening platinum haze of debris that

seemed to be closing around them. Sisko's stomach

lurched, feeling the drag and kick of

uncompensated inertial fields. "But something

keeps disturbing them, and it's throwing them right at us!"

"What a coincidence." In one fluid

motion, Kor tore his engrossed engineer away from

his damage reports and threw him back toward

Sisko, then met Worf's next bat'leth thrust

with a blade-locking twist and jerk. "I don't

suppose your ship had anything to do with that, Worf,

son of Mogh?" he growled into the younger man's

blood-streaked face. "No," Worf said with

exhausted honesty. "They are far from here by now,

deflecting other comets away from Cha'xirrac."

Kor's furious roar drowned out the wet, hollow

sound of a bat'leth sinking deep into flesh, but it

couldn't drown the involuntary scream of pain that

followed. Sisko didn't have time to see who was hit

--he was too busy bracing himself against the ship's

drunken swoops to meet the engineer's next blow.

Rather than try to parry this one, he used the same

maneuver he'd seen Kor try on Worf--

dropping to one knee so that his opponent's blade

whistled over his head, then lunging up with the wicked

tip of the bat'leth.

The blade hit the Klingon engineer's rib cage

at what seemed like an awkwardly obtuse

angle, but to Sisko's immense surprise, it

slid over one rib and under another to bite deep within

his burly chest. The engineer staggered back, looking

more dazed than hurt, and peered down at the bat'leth

still protruding from his chest. "Good aim," he

croaked, then collapsed unconscious at

Sisko's feet, a bright trickle of blood

oozing from the wound. Grabbing at the nearest bulkhead

to steady himself, Sisko stared down at him, still not quite

believing he had won. The female pilot glanced

over her shoulder. "Begin-her's luck," she said in

disgust. "You bruised his gla'chih--the shielded

nerve plexus in his chest. He's out for a day at

least." She jerked her chin at Sisko, scowling.

"Go ahead, pull the bat'leth out. Nothing will hurt

him now." Sisko did as she said, watching the

trickle of blood slow as the wound closed. Then

he jerked his head up, suddenly becoming aware of the

silence around him. Not a single clash of bat'leths,

not a thud of falling bodies disturbed the ragged sound

of exhausted and pain-racked breathing. and jerk. "I

don't suppose your ship had anything to do with that,

Worf, son of Mogh?" he growled into the younger

man's blood-streaked face. "No," Worf said

with exhausted honesty. "They are far from here

by now, deflecting other comets away from

Cha'xirrac." Kor's furious roar drowned out the

wet, hollow sound of a bat'leth sinking deep

into flesh, but it couldn't drown the involuntary scream

of pain that followed. Sisko didn't have time to see

who was hit--he was too busy bracing himself against the

ship's drunken swoops to meet the engineer's next

blow. Rather than try to parry this one, he used the

same maneuver he'd seen Kor try on Worf

--dropping to one knee so that his opponent's blade

whistled over his head, then lunging up with the wicked

tip of the bat'leth.

The blade hit the Klingon engineer's rib cage

at what seemed like an awkwardly obtuse angle,

but to Sisko's immense surprise, it slid over

one rib and under another to bite deep within his burly

chest. The engineer staggered back, looking more dazed

than hurt, and peered down at the bat'leth still

protruding from his chest. "Good aim," he croaked,

then collapsed unconscious at Sisko's feet,

a bright trickle of blood oozing from the wound.

Grabbing at the nearest bulkhead to steady himself,

Sisko stared down at him, still not quite believing he had

won. The female pilot glanced over her shoulder.

"Begin-her's luck," she said in disgust.

"You bruised his gla'chih--the shielded nerve

plexus in his chest. He's out for a day at least."

She jerked her chin at Sisko, scowling. "Go

ahead, pull the bat'leth out. Nothing will hurt him

now." Sisko did as she said, watching the trickle

of blood slow as the wound closed. Then he jerked his

head up, suddenly becoming aware of the silence around

him. Not a single clash of bat'leths, not a thud of

falling bodies disturbed the ragged sound of exhausted

and pain-racked breathing. He looked for Worf first,

anxiously, and found him in exactly the position

he'd most feared. His tall tactical officer

lay sprawled across the empty weapons panel, one

arm dangling brokenly and the other locked above his head

in Kor's massive fist. The Dahar Master had

leaned all his considerable weight on his opponent,

keeping him trapped despite weak-ening struggles.

When the point of Kor's bat'leth dug into his

throat, deep enough to spring a bright pulse of blood

out with each beat of his strong heart, Worf stopped

struggling and just scowled up at him. "Qapla"

Despite his swollen and blood-wet face,

Worf sounded as stubbornly indomitable as ever. It

was hard to believe he had really lost. "The

Suv'batlh belongs to you, Dahar Master.

Now kill me."

"Is the Suv'batelh mine? On all counts?"

Kor glanced over his shoulder, frowning when he saw

his engineer recumbent at Sisko's feet. It

wasn't until his gaze skated past them toward the

third pair of fighters, though, that his face darkened

to the consistency of a thundercloud. "Kitold! How in the

name of the dead Klingon gods did tha t happen?" His

weapons officer stepped forward, swaying as another

comet thundered off the aft shield. One hand was locked

around his battle-gloved forearm to hold his dislocated

arm in place. The greenish pallor of his face

told Sisko he wouldn't stay on his feet much

longer. "It was subterfuge," he said hoarsely.

"The Changeling pretended to be more weary than he

actually was, in order to lure me into position for

his strike." Sisko's gaze went past the wounded

Klingon to Odo, whose mock-Klingon armor flowed

back into the constable's usual pristine uniform even as

he watched. "Is that true?" he demanded. Odo

gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgment. "It

seemed like a legitimate maneuver. I admit,

I did alter my appearance to a certain extent

to achieve the deception, but it is not as if I can

turn pale or sweat with fear. Nothing about

my shape-shifting ever endangered my opponent."

"It was trickery!" insisted

the young Klingon. "More like strategy." Kor

yanked his bat'leth abruptly from Worf's

throat, releasing him to stagger back and clutch at his

own wounded arm. "You were taken in by the oldest

warrior's trick in the book, Kitold! You

deserve to lose that arm, but I don't want

to smell your corpse all the way back to the

home-world. Go put yourself into a medical stasis

chamber now!" The wounded Klingon growled in

ungrateful acknowledgment before he pushed past

Sisko, heading toward the bank of stasis lockers

at the back of the main deck. Worf watched him go,

then turned a puzzled gaze on Kor. "Wej

Heghehugh ray', Suvtah Suvwi'? If someone

has not yet died, how can a Klingon warrior stop

fighting?" Kor snorted, richly scornful.

"Only a fool takes a death that means nothing.

I didn't get to be a Dahar Master by being a

fool." He reached out to steady Worf as the younger

male staggered, either thrown off- balance by the ship's

evasive swerves or perhaps just noticing the pain of his

many wounds. The only thing splashed on Kor's

robe, Sisko noticed wryly, was

blood wine. "Dujeychugh jagh. nlv yltuhoo

There is nothing shameful in falling before a superior

enemy. Through the luck of your captain and the wiles of

your Changeling, you have won the Suv'batlh you

challenged me to, Worf, son of Mogh. What

is your will of me?" Worf opened his mouth, but before he

could say a word, the female pilot swung around at

her console, pale eyes blazing. "Captain!

Security alert! Those comets that keep hitting

us--I think they're being deflected by a vessel

entering the system!"

"What?" Kor cursed and

shoved Worfaside, diving for his command chair.

"Identity of vessel?"

"I

can't tell!" The young Klingon sensor

technician pounded on his unresponsive panels.

"My instruments can't even penetrate the mass of

comets gathered in front of it! The debris is a

hundred times more dense than it should be. Whoever it

is, they must have followed the ice-giant's orbital

track all the way into the system, collecting

debris with their tractor beams the whole way."

"Cardassians!" Kor said with

disgusted certainty. "Who else would

apply themselves so diligently to such a coward's

strategy?" He threw an ironic look at

Sisko. "Gul Hidret is probably scanning

the system as we speak, hoping to find the charred

remains of both our ships."

"Possibly." Sisko took a step closer

to the view-screen, as if that could somehow make the

unknown vessel appear out of the icy haze. It

didn't, but the

silent, dusty curve of Armageddon's

horizon swung into view as the female pilot

looped around a particularly thick comet cluster.

He felt his gut twist with foreboding. "How many

comets is that unknown ship pushing in front of them?"

"Ten thousand, maybe more," the sensor

technician said grimly. "All gathered into a

space of only nineteen cubic kilometers and

accelerated to a quarter impulse speed." That made

Kor's breath whistle out in shock. "In what

direction?" he demanded. "Toward us?"

"No." The female pilot glanced up at the

blood-colored image of Armageddon on the

viewscreen, pity flickering in her cold Klingon

eyes. "Toward the planet." Sisko and Odo

exchanged appalled looks. "The away

team," Worf said hoarsely. "We must notify

them."

"To

let them prepare for their deaths with honor." Kor

nodded gravely. "It is a reasonable request.

Boost their comm badge signals through our

transmitter, Bhirq." Sisko slapped a hand

to his chest without even waiting for the Klingon

technician to reply. "Sisko to Kira, Sisko

to Dax."

"Dax here." Her calm Trill voice brought

a reminiscent smile to Kor's face, one that

faded into regret an instant later. "Go ahead,

Benjamin."

"A Cardassian battleship has just swept

up ten thousand comet fragments and launched them toward

Armageddon," Sisko said, with brutal curtness.

"You've got to beam out, now!" "Understood." The

advantage of having a subordinate with three

hundred cumulative years of experience was that she

knew when to ask for details and explanations, and when

not to. "Time to impact?"

"Forty minutes," said the Klingon pilot.

"Max."

"Then we might have a shot at getting

everyone on the planet into shelter. Julian and the

crash survivors have taken refuge in a deep

cave system. If we can get there, we should be

immune even to the impact of ten thousand comets."

Dax's voice had taken on the steely determination

that meant she wasn't going to take "no" for an

answer. "Permission to stay on planet,

Captain?"

"Granted," Sisko said, scowling. "Just be

damned sure you're inside that cave in thirty

minutes, old man, not out gathering up some last

DNA samples from an endangered plant." The

Trill science officer made a wordless noise of

amusement. "Don't worry, Benjamin. The

plants down here can take care of their own DNA

without any help from me. Dax out." Kor glanced

at Worf, who was quietly dripping blood across

the empty weapons panel that propped him up. "You

could make your Suv'batlh request the phasering of

these Cardassian comets," the Dahar Master said

suggestively. "Every one we shoot--" "robecomes

a cluster of smaller ones and spreads the destruction

even further," Sisko said flatly. "And there are

far too many to deflect with our shields, even using

both our ships." Odo gave the older

Klingon an ironic look. "In any case,

wouldn't those actions violate the honorable exile of

your countrymen?"

Kor spat toward the comet-clouded viewscreen.

"The Cardassians have already done that, Changeling."

The viewscreen flared with wild static for a moment,

then resolved into a forced transmission from the

Defiant. O'Brien's bleak gaze scanned

across them, unable to focus on Sisko since the

Klingons weren't transmitting back. "Captain,

sensors have picked up the arrival of the Olxinder on

your side of the planet, pushing a forced impact

wave of twelve thousand comet fragments in front of

them. The away team says you know about it. I'll

wait ten minutes for your orders, then start flying

through the field, trying to target the largest and most

destructive fragments. O'Brien out." Worf

groaned, not entirely in pain. "The Defiant's

shields cannot survive the onslaught of twelve

thousand comets!"

"Ten thousand," the Klingon sensor tech

interrupted peevishly. "So what is your

Suv'batlh request, Worf, son of Mogh?"

Kor repeated impatiently. "To save your

shipmates by making us sacrifice our own

ship to the comets?"

"No," Sisko said, before his wounded tactical

officer could reply. "Our request is to consider this

system from now on as a joint Klingon-Federation

protectorate. Correct, Mr. Worf?." His

tactical officer nodded, with the utter trust in his

commander that had won Sisko's appreciation from the first.

"And to cede to Captain Sisko any rights won by me

in the Suv'batlh combat." Worf fell

to his knees with a massive thud that Sisko

felt across the deck. "I fear I will not remain

conscious long enough to exercise them." Kor scowled.

"The second of those requests is reasonable and I

agree to it. But what sense does the first make?"

"It gives us the joint ability to

defend this system from the Cardassians," Sisko

retorted. "And prove to the entire galaxy that they

are not only smuggling banned neurochemical

weapons, they are also destroying an ecosystem they

don't own to obtain it." Kor's scowl grew more

thoughtful. "You think they didn't just bring those comets in

to hide behind? You think they actually planned to wipe

out everything alive on that planet, just to get their hands

on the last dregs of drevlocet?"

"That sounds like a rhetorical question

to me," Odo said caustically. Sisko took a

step forward, ignoring the angry ache of strained

shoulder muscles. "Your ship is cloaked, just like the

Defiant, and we know the Cardassians aren't very

good at detecting ion trails. They won't know

we're here until we fire our weapons, either at

the comets or at them. If we let them think what

they want to think--that we destroyed each other

battling over this planet, and left the coast clear

for them to move in, I have a hunch they'll

incriminate themselves exactly forty minutes from now."

"So we play dead, while the planet

beneath us dies?" Sisko grimaced. "I don't

like that either--but all our people should be safe and I trust

my science officer when she says the planet will

recover. What we do have time to save is the rest of the

Alpha Quadrant. Now, are you going

to cooperate with us, or does our Suv'batlh

request have to be the self-destruction of this ship?"

Kor gave that ultimatum the fierce snort of

disdain it deserved, since Sisko never had any

intention of enforcing it. "What about the House of

Vrag? If any live after the comet deluge, are

they going to be rescued against their will?"

"Federation policy only allows us

to evacuate planet residents who wish to leave."

Sisko never thought he would live to be grateful for

diplomatic equivocation. "The House of Vrag

will get to decide their own fate, and preserve their

own honor." The Dahar Master mulled that over,

then jerked his head in a satisfied Klingon nod.

"That will satisfy the High Council, provided there

are no more traitors like that garg-carcass you sent here

for disposal. When we get back to the homeworld,

I'm going to have to decontaminate my stasis

chambers just to get the stink of him out of them." At that

moment, Worf slumped into unconsciousness with a

violent crash of armor. Sisko cursed and

sprang to catch him before he rolled across the deck.

"We need to beam him back to the Defiant for

medical attention," he said to Kor. "And I need

to tell O'Brien not to fly into that comet storm. Have you

accepted our Suv'batlh conditions? Is

Armageddon now a joint Klingon-Federation

protectorate?"

"No." Kor grinned wickedly at Odo's

startled frown. "But Cha'xirrae is." Sisko

threw the elderly Klingon an exasperated glare.

He was starting to see why Kor and Curzon Dax

had gotten along so well. "Then my first

request as coprotector of Cha'xirrac is for you

to beam me back aboard the Defiant. We'll

patrol opposite sides of the planet--whoever first

detects the Cardassians beaming down to the planet

after the comet impacts gets to confront them, but it

has to be on a wide-open channel. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Kor

glanced up at the viewscreen, no longer hazed

with icy glitte now that they had escaped the

Cardassian-gathered swarm. Distant light

bloomed in the planet's dust-stained atmosphere,

the harmless high-level explosion of a natural comet

collision. Sisko's gut still jerked with dismay,

anticipating the inferno to come. "Provided there is

a planet left for them to beam down to."

"I can't believe you thought this was a good idea."

Kira bent as low as she dared, ignoring the twinge in

her lower back, pretending her thighs and knees and

ankles weren't screaming complaints loud enough to wake

all of Armageddon's past extinctions. "You've

got to admit," she grunted, grabbing Dax's arms

and hauling back with all her might, "it does give

us some advantages." They toppled to the

burn-scarred tuq'mor canopy one on top the

other. Eyebrow arched, Dax tossed a

look at the Klingons still struggling to climb the

tangled brush as she extricated herself from Kira and

rolled clumsily onto her back. "Let's

hope it's advantage enough." If it wasn't,

then they were no worse off than they'd been on the

ground. Give or take a few fall-related

injuries. At least she and Dax weren't pinwheeling

their arms or lurching about with one hand always in contact

with the tuq'mor. She watched Rekan's two honor

companions crack the scorched surface of the

canopy more than once as they stumbled into the formal

Suv'batlh wedge. If Dax and K'Taran could

lead their opponents over some of the more fire-weakened

surfaces, they might be able to keep their footing

even when the heftier Klingons broke through. Kira,

on the other hand, had a feeling epetai Vrag would

be harder to displace than her less-dedicated

counterparts. She would hang onto Kira's throat

with her teeth before she fell. For some reason, the

Klingon matriarch looked taller on top the

tuq'mor, standing proudly if not comfortably--with her

chin held high. She'd dragged loose the rhodium

comb pinning her hair in place the moment the challenge

was official. The mass of silver white hair that

cascaded down her back gleamed

unexpectedly bright in their ash-faded surroundings.

A wild mane of icy fire. When she fitted the

comb back into her hair, Kira thought it looked like a

thin, silver tiara framing the back of her skull,

an appropriate addendum to her cool alien

beauty. Kira positioned herself the required three

paces in front of the epetai, resolutely

squaring her tired shoulders. "The tuq'mor is the

battleground," she announced, loudly enough that the

Klingons now crowding the ground level could hear.

"Falling from the tuq'mor constitutes leaving the

combat, and that warrior is forfeit. Agreed?"

Rekan nodded once, fiercely. "Agreed.

Qapla!" Kira had imagined a slightly more

ritualized beginning to the combat, although it struck her

upon reflection that this was naive. Klingons were nothing

if not straightforward. Rekan launched herself at

Kira like a leaping rock-cat, slamming the smaller

Bajoran with the full weight of her body and driving

them both to the tuq'mor. Limbs cracked and jabbed

at Kira's back like broken ribs, then gave

way and dropped her a good foot into the dry

underbrush. Rekan pressed down on her from above,

her hand clamped under Kira's jaw. "If this were a

true Suv'batlh," she growled, "you would

be dead and I would already be the victor. Yield!"

Kira sucked a painful breath and locked her arms

in the tuq'mor beyond her head. "Warriors do not

yield!" And she kicked downward with both feet before

Rekan could respond. Limbs splintered in an

irregular mass, reclosing around Kira's slim

body with springy resilience all out of proportion

to their brittleness. Rekan tangled in the upper

story, her torso suddenly angled abruptly

downward, and Kira willfully snatched double

handfuls of white hair to twist among the brambles before

dragging herself laterally out of the older Klingon's reach.

It felt like wriggling on her back through a shattered

maintenance duct; cables of vine fouled her passage

so that spindly fingers of shrubbery could tear at her

uniform, prick at her eyes. By the time she found

an opening to haul herself back to the upper surface,

she bolted into the open like an ice-swimmer

reclaiming the surface. The tuq'mor canopy no

longer seemed such a sturdy playing field.

Adrenaline spiked her bloodstream with every placement

of her feet, every shift and crackle of failing

timber. She floated her arms out to either side in

search of a constantly wandering balance, and insisted to her

fear that running along the jouncing bushtops

was no different than walking scaffolding or climbing

trees. The dry sourness at the back of her throat

suggested she didn't find herself very convincing. Kira

half-hopped, half-stumbled in a circle to try and

place herself in the combat. Rekan had vanished,

leaving only snarls of torn silver hair

fluttering in the hot breeze. Growls and labored

breathing far to her right rear helped Kira locate

K'Taran, where the young girl wrestled a tall

male almost three times her age near the remnants

of one great hut-tree. She's going to lose,

Kira realized abruptly. It was a wonder she'd

held out as long as she had. Wrenching free of the

older male's hold, K'Taran jumped nearly as

high as his shoulder and scrabbled up the charred stump

to leap from its top. Her landing was awkward, but it put

distance between her and the big male; he lurched across the

canopy like a drunken mugatu, huffing and cursing.

That's the way, Kira thought. If you can't beat him,

wear him out. Taking the hint, she trotted a few more

long steps away from where she'd left Rekan,

scanning the dark battleground for the rest of the

Suv'batlh. She faced a distressing lack Of

silhouettes against the flaming sky. "Dax?"

"Down here!" The Trill's voice

floated up from below. She sounded distinctly

irritated and impossibly far away. "I'm

fine! K'Daq fell down with me, so we're both

out." Kira crouched as low as she dared, and peered between

her feet for a closer look at shadow movement within

the shadows. "You sure you're all right?"

"Nothing hurt

but my pride. Look after yourself! Sound advice.

If only it had come a moment sooner. A dark hand

shot upward out of the tuq'mor, as fast and fierce as

a spider. Kira backpedaled, lifting her knees

high to take her feet out of grabbing range, but not

quickly enough. Rekan clamped strong fingers around one

ankle, and Kira knew even before the Klingon

hauled back on her leg that she'd run out of

options. There was nowhere left to run. Kira hit the

tuq'mor canopy full length, her shoulders taking

the brunt of the impact, just ahead of the back of her

skull. She felt the tuq'mor creak and shiver, like

a stand of marsh grass under the thrashing of a great wind,

and her mind reeled wildly, I didn't fall that

hard? Did I really fall that hard? Then she

heard the thunder, and realized that these stomach-wrenching

tremors came from fathree times her age near the

remnants of one great hut-tree. She's

going to lose, Kira realized abruptly. It was a

wonder she'd held out as long as she had. Wrenching

free of the older male's hold, K'Taran jumped

nearly as high as his shoulder and scrabbled up the

charred stump to leap from its top. Her landing was

awkward, but it put distance between her and the big male;

he lurched across the canopy like a drunken mugatu,

huffing and cursing. That's the way, Kira thought. If

you can't beat him, wear him out. Taking the hint, she

trotted a few more long steps away from where she'd

left Rekan, scanning the dark battleground for the

rest of the Suv'batlh. She faced a distressing

lack Of silhouettes against the flaming sky.

"Dax?"

"Down here!" The Trill's voice floated up

from below. She sounded distinctly irritated and

impossibly far away. "I'm fine! K'Daq

fell down with me, so we're both out." Kira

crouched as low as she dared, and peered between her feet

for a closer look at shadow movement within the shadows.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Nothing hurt

but my pride. Look after yourself! Sound advice.

If only it had come a moment sooner. A dark hand

shot upward out of the tuq'mor, as fast and

fierce as a spider. Kira backpedaled, lifting

her knees high to take her feet out of grabbing

range, but not quickly enough. Rekan clamped strong

fingers around one ankle, and Kira knew even before the

Klingon hau led back on her leg that she'd run out

of options. There was nowhere left to run. Kira hit

the tuq'mor canopy full length, her shoulders

taking the brunt of the impact, just ahead of the back of

her skull. She felt the tuq'mor creak and

shiver, like a stand of marsh grass under the thrashing of a

great wind, and her mind reeled wildly, I

didn't fall that hard? Did I really fall that

hard? Then she heard the thunder, and realized that these

stomach-wrenching tremors came from farther away than

her own collision with the tuq'mor. She struggled

to climb to all fours. At first, Rekan's torso

blocked her view of the clearing and the Klingons standing

witness on the ground. The epetai had dragged herself

halfway out of the understory, the scratches on her

cheeks and the brilliant blood in her hair only

accentuating her fearful wildness. Now, her eyes

met Kira's with a flash of purest hatred, and

Kira knew in that instant that this battle wasn't

between epetai Vrag and Kira Nerys--it was a

battle between what used to be and what could

never be again. Kira said only, "Listen."

Tremors shook the brush in angry fists. Ash the

color of powdered bone drifted up from the tuq'mor

like smoke, and Kira had to grab at whatever whipping

limbs she could reach to keep from being shaken down between the

branches. Rekan only knelt where she'd

stopped, head lifted, face hollow. She reminded

Kira of one of the Klingons" dead goddesses.

Even perched and bleeding on the edges of sylshessa,

her dignity and grace were breathtaking Below them, the

Klingons did not panic. It occurred to Kira that

perhaps they were a people incapable of panic, those genes

having been shriven from their species ages ago

by warriors unwilling to tolerate such weakness. When

K'Taran's banchory groaned a long, low

bellow of distress, even the youngest of the children merely

scurried clear of its thrashing. Then the first of the

mounted banchory crashed into the open, and the bawling of

these lumbering newcomers nearly drowned out the cries

of surprise. Ash-stained primates--the little

green-gray lemurs Kira had seen haunting the

edges of the camp from the beginningmcrowded the backs of the

great pachyderms. One of them scampered forward, down

its banchory's plated rill to crouch on the wide

nose-bridge between the mammoth's eyes.

The "come hither" curling of its hands and wrists

seemed unmistakable to Kira. And, apparently,

to one of the children clustered at the base of the tuq'mor.

The boy took only a single step forward before one

of the older women reached out to stop him, stating

simply, "Epetai says we must stay." Kira

shivered at the helplessly loyal chill that passed

through the family. A few--most of them very young, although

some might have been the parents of K'Taran and her

rebel adolescents--turned their eyes upward

toward Rekan. No recrimination in those stark

gazes, no pleas. As though they all stated fact

to one another, and their epetai simply represented

what they already knew to be true. Duty, Kira

realized. Honor. It mattered so much to them, they

would willingly forsake all else, even survival.

Sinking slowly to her heels, Rekan stared down at

her children, and their children, and all the pasts and futures every

Klingon House created. "Must honor always be

cruel?" she asked softly. Not really to Kira, the

major knew, even though there was no one else-

close enough to hear. "I know in my heart what honor

demands of us... yet now that we face the final

moments... I would not see my children die. ..."

Kira looked down at her hands, not knowing

what to say, and sensing the question was rhetorical

anyway. "I would not have love and honor always run

in separate ways." The epetai straightened, and

her voice rang purely, clearly over the roar of

exploding comets and the rumble of fidgeting banchory.

"G. Take the children--they are this House's future.

Put yourselves in safety until the sky no longer

burns." When no one moved, she announced, more

gently, "Honor commanded only that we remain on

Cha'xirrac forever. Not that we must die." She

turned to Kira as the first of the elders lifted a

youngster into one of the primates' waiting arms. "The

Suv'batlh is ended," she told Kira, very, very

quietly. "G." Kira touched the epetai's arm

when Rekan moved to turn away. "You should come with

us." Rekan stared toward the burning horizon,

immobile. "You can't abandon them now," Kira

said. "Your House is going to need you when the comet

strikes are over." The Klingon shook her head,

and a ghostly smile brushed her eyes without appearing

on her features. "This House is of Cha'xirrac

now. It will need an epetai who is of

Cha'xirrac as well." She was silent for a moment,

watching K'Taran and her Suv'batlh opponent

work as allies in herding children onto the

banchory. Then she caught sight of Kira from the

corner of her eye, and smiled with what seemed

genuine warmth. "Such a look! There is no shame

in admitting that one's service is finished." She

gave the major one last nod toward the others as she

rose slowly to full height. "I go

to Sto-Vo-Kor at peace with the state of my

honor," she assured her. "Save your pity for the

survivors."

CHAPTER 10

ARMAGEDDON HAD, HORRIBLY, lived up

to its name. The comet storm had started violently

enough, with the enormous smoke-shrouded flares of

near-surface explosions. Within ten minutes, the

planet's atmosphere had congealed and darkened

everywhere, giving it an oddly opaque look in the

oblivious saffron sunlight. Watching from his command

chair on the bridge of the defiant, Sisko

realized he was watching the fall of cometary night, a

dust-driven darkness whose dawn might not arrive for

days or even weeks. But that was just the start. "The first

really big fragment is going in now." Ensign

Farabaugh turned at the comet-tracking station, his

eyes sober beneath a tidy bandage. "Impact in

two minutes."

"Will it explode in the atmosphere?" Odo

inquired. "Like the others, only bigger?"

"I don't think so," the young science officer said.

"It looks like this one is actually big enough and solid

enough to hit the surface. If it does, it could

excavate a crater one or two kilometers

deep."

"So much for being protected in a cave."

O'Brien saw the irritated look Sisko sent

him and shrugged. "Optimism is for command officers,

Captain. Engineers prefer pessimism, because it

saves lives instead of risking them. Are you sure

we can't just beam up the away team? We've had a

lock on their comms for the last ten minutes, and they've

barely moved."

"Not while the Cardassians are on our side

of the planet," Sisko said. "Chief, if you want

to be pessimistic, why don't you send those comm

coordinates to Farabaugh? That way, he can alert

us if it looks like a surface impact is going

to come too close."

"Good

idea." The chief engineer bent over his panel,

just in time to miss the enormous steel-colored light

that exploded across the upper half of

Armageddon's huge eastern ocean. A slowly

towering column of fire rose above it, its

crenulated ash-black clouds rising so high into the

planet's stratosphere that the topmost debris

drifted out of the gravity well completely and was lost

to space. A collective gasp of horror hit

the bridge, bringing O'Brien's sandy head around

toward the viewscreen so fast he almost slammed

into his console. "God Almighty! Is that anywhere

near the away team?"

"The impact wasn't," Farabaugh assured

him. "And I don't think the tsunami will run quite

that far inland--"

"The tsunami?" That was Ensign Frisinger,

Worf's substitute pilot, whose fascinated

gaze hadn't wavered from the viewscreen once since

the comet storm had begun. Sisko hoped he knew

his panel controls by touch. "What's that?"

"The shock wave in the ocean that the impact

creates," Osgood explained. "High-level

explosions don't usually make them, since they

displace air instead of water." Farabaugh was

punching a quick calculation into his station. "Looks like

the main wave should hit shore starting about three hours

from now. The backwash and secondary waves

will probably last through tomorrow evening."

"Let's hope the

Cardassians don't know that," Sisko said,

grimacing. "I don't feel like waiting that long

to confront them." The barrage of high-level

airbursts rose to an almost continuous glare of

explosions after that, as if the ocean impact had been

some kind of floodgate, opening to let all the rest

of the swarm pour through. The increasingly ash-choked sky

turned each bloom of light a deeper

crimson-tinted black, like roses charring in a

celestial flame. It was hard, watching from the

distant bridge of the Defiant, to remember that these

silent fireworks represented destruction on a

planetary scale. "Still getting signal back from

the away team, Chief?." Sisko couldn't

repress the question any longer. A second surface

impact had geysered up, this time from the shadowy

darkness that he thought represented the main continent. This

mushroom-

shaped debris cloud rose even higher than the

first, high enough that the debris sparked a firefly

glitter of auroral light when it burst through the

planet's magnetic s torms. "Off and on,

between the EM pulses. At least, it

doesn't seem to be getting any weaker."

O'Brien glanced back over his shoulder. "There

aren't any big fragments aiming for those caves, are

there, ensign?"

"No, sir." Farabaugh glanced over

at Sisko, the pale damp sheen of his face

belying his claim of being completely healed. "In

fact, there aren't any more big pieces left. The

whole storm is tapering off. In another ten

minutes, Armageddon should be back to business as

usual." Sisko sat up, his pulse sharpening

to battle-ready alertness. "Scan for the

Cardassian ship, maximum resolution."

"Got it." Thornto n's hand flew across the

science station, fine-tuning the resolution on his

sensors. There was something to be said for assigning an

engineering specialist to use his own instruments,

Sisko thought. "Image coming through now, sir. It's

the Olxinder, for sure."

"I can see that." The Cardassian

battleship's sharp-edged silhouette was just rounding the

planet's smoky horizon, leaving Kor's

patrol and entering their own. Sisko would have bet all

the antique baseballs in his collection that the

Klingon Dahar Master followed them, and

probably at a none-too-discreet distance. "I

want to know the instant you get the hint of a shuttle

launch, a transporter beam, or" "--a scan

of the planet?" Thornton glanced over his shoulder,

his quiet face lit with an unexpected smile.

"They're doing it now, sir. Sensors seem to be

set for native life-signs."

"Can their instruments penetrate

into the caves?" Odo demanded. "The

Cardassians might cut and run if they find

evidence of any surviving Klingons, not to mention

Humans, Trills, and Bajorans." The young

engineering tech shook his head. "I don't think

they've even got the resolution to cut through the

leftover EM furze. They're going to have to go

down."

"In a shuttle, too, at

least if they know what's good for them." O'Brien

saw Odo's questioning look. "You wouldn't catch me

trying to transport through that electromagnetic

mess." Sisko grunted. "Then get a tractor

beam ready, Chief. Frisinger, make sure

we're never out of tractor range--but don't

bump into Kor while you do it."

"Aye, sir."

"--ffDefiant." The crackle

of static coming from his chair's communicator couldn't

disguise the vibrancy of Dax's voice--or the

scientific excitement that ran through it. "Dax

to Defiant. Can you--?"

"I'm working on it," O'Brien said,

forestalling Sisko's unspoken command. "Signal

resolution coming up now."

"Link a secure channel to Kor," Sisko

said quietly. "He'll want to know that Dax is

alive."

"Dax to Sisko. Can you read us yet,

Benjamin?" "Sisko here. What's your situation?"

"Completely secured, Captain." That

was his second-in-command, sounding exhausted but just

as competent as ever. "All the Klingon refugees

are in stable health, and so are the survivors from

Victoria Adams's crew--all thirty-one of

them. We've managed to save a surprising number

of the natives, too, even the big pachyderms. They

seemed to have an instinct--"

"It's more than an

instinct for some of them." Sisko lifted an

eyebrow, knowing Dax was never that rude unless a

major scientific breakthrough was bubbling to the

surface. "Benjamin, some of the natives are

sentient!"

"Not just

sentient." That was a voice Sisko hadn't

heard in too long. Its weary British accent and

carefully precise language dissolved a knot of

tension he hadn't even realized he was feeling. "The

xirri are a full-fledged Class-two

civilization, Captain oral history, medicine,

long-distance radio communication-was

"The natives have technology?" Sisko

exchanged startled looks with O'Brien and Odo.

If the Klingons had knowingly violated the Prime

Directive when they'd chosen this planet for their

honorable exile, it was going to be a lot harder

to convince the Federation that they now owned half of it.

"The xirri's ability to communicate in radio

wavelengths isn't technological, Benjamin."

Dax sounded both dazed and delighted by that fact.

"It's a biological adaptation, bred into them

by reproductive isolation and the stress of cometary

impact. As far as we can tell, all the native

vertebrates have the same capacity, but--" Sisko

saw the urgent look Thornton cast him and cut

ruthlessly across his science officer's

explanation. "You can explain all the gory

details to me later, old man. I've got a

Cardassian gul getting ready to tip his hand, and

I want to be ready to slap it." "Understood."

There was a muffled grunt behind Kira's voice, as

if someone's toe had been stepped on. "Away

team out."

"I'm reading a power

surge in the circuits around the Cardassians'

main shuttle door," Thornton told him, before the

crackle of static had even faded from the bridge.

"I think they're getting ready to launch an

expedition to the planet."

"Shields at full power, cloak controls set

for imminent drop," Sisko said. "Set tractor

beam coordinates for a kilometer away from the

launch door."

"Coordinates laid in," O'Brien

confirmed. "Tractor beam fully charged and

ready."

"Launch doors opening," Thornton said. The

Olxinder slowly rotated as she orbited the

ash-dark planet, bringing her belly-slit shuttle

bay into gloriously clear resolution. "Shuttle

deploying inside launch bay."

"Red alert. Quantum torpedoes armed and

ready for launch." Sisko didn't really

expect Hidret to put up a fight, but you could

never tell what a weasel would do when cornered. It

would be stupid to be unprepared. "Shuttle

position, Mr. Thornton?"

"Four

hundred meters and accelerating. Six hundred,

eight hundred--"

"Drop

cloak and engage tractor beam," Sisko

snapped, anticipating the thousand meter mark.

O'Brien must have been equally primed for action--the

tractor beam flashed out before he'd even finished

calling for it, its gold-dust glitter smacking through

the silver cometary haze to seize on the

Cardassian shuttlecraft. Sisko felt the

Defiant rock with an unexpected jolt of

backwash inertia, and threw a frown at

O'Brien. The chief engineer was growling at his

controls. "If you're going to stay locked even though

we were first, the least you could do is match your beam

intensity... damn arrogant Klingons!"

Sisko's gaze rose to the viewscreen, startled.

He could see, now that O'Brien had

pointed it out, the mirror glimmer of a second

tractor beam, refracting back across the

planet's horizon. An instant later, the

uncloaked silhouette of a Jfolokh-class ship

rose above the ashen atmosphere, tracking back

along its beam toward the mammoth Cardassian

battleship like a fish reeling itself toward the

fisherman. "Hail the Cardassians on an open

channel." The corner of Sisko's mouth kicked

upward wryly. "And prepare for a three-way

conference, Mr. Thornton."

"Aye, sir." Armageddon's seared

image vanished, replaced by a duplicate

image of scowling, furrowed faces. Kor's

expression, however, was one of pure military

ferocity, while Gul Hidret's had clearly

been plastered over shock and indecision. "Is this an

act of war, Captain Sisko?" he demanded, in

what was probably meant to be a preemptive

strike. "Are you actually working in league with these

Klingon ruffians after all?"

"Yes, I am." Sisko

allowed a cold slice of smile to show. "I'm

legally required to, Gul Hidret, since this

is now a joint Klingon-Federation

protectorate." "What?" The Cardassian's

scowl lost a little more of its assurance. "When was that

treaty signed?"

"An hour ago, in Klingon and Human

blood," Kor retorted. "All it needs now

is some Cardassian blood to be complete."

"Nonsense!" Hidret sounded as though he might

choke on his own disbelief. "You think to fool me

by making such wild, unreasonable claims."

"I admit, you were the one who first suggested this

alliance," Sisko said wickedly. "The more I thought

about it, the better an idea it seemed." Hidret

shook his head. "I don't believe it. You're

going to let this Starfleet officer interfere with your

dishonored exiles, Kor?" "No," said the Dahar

Master grimly. "We're going to make sure that

my dishonored exiles haven't interfered with the

sentient natives whose civilization we just discovered.

Of course," he added maliciously, "any little

ecological problems they may have caused will pale

in comparison with the devastation we just saw you create."

"What?" Gul Hidret looked

like a man whose worst fevered nightmares had just

erupted into waking life. "You're lying! There are

no sentients on that planet--"

"And how

would you know that, Gul, if you've never set foot

on Cha'xirrac?" Sisko asked silkily. "It

--it was surveyed by the medical teams scouring this

region for the cure to ptarvo fever." Kor

snorted. "If you ever needed a cure for the randiness of

youth--which I very much doubt--your searches here found no

cure for it."

"All you found here," Sisko continued, "was a

cheap and easy source of drevlocet. Isn't that

right, Gul Hidret?"

"Drevlocet that the Cardassian High Command

would like to modify to use on Klingons," Kor

finished. "Isn't that right, Gul Hidret?" The

elderly Cardassian grimaced, the wrinkled

canyons of his face growing deep and darkly

shadowed. "I refuse to answer such accusations in

this--this inappropriate setting! I came here in

response to a willful attack against the

Cardassian people, only to find it was a trap!"

Sisko permitted himself a scowl. "Our

diplomats can settle who set the traps in this

system, Gul Hidret. But the fact remains that

this planet beneath us is now its own sovereign state,

subject to no external interference in its

ecology or its affairs."

"Exactly what I'd be the

first to tell you," the elderly Cardassian

insisted. "And just as soon as you release my shuttle

full of emergency medical personnel, I'll be

on my way."

"Good," Kor said. "I hate to break it to you,

old enemy, but your ship seems to have a most

unfortunate attraction to comets. It would be a shame

if one actually penetrated your shields and caused

a hull breach." Snaggle-teeth bared in a grin that

would have done credit to a crocodile. "And the longer you

stay in this area, the more likely that is to happen.

Don't you agree, Captain Sisko?"

"Definitely." Gul

Hidret slapped at his communicator controls,

breaking the connection without another word. Kor

promptly broke into a massive roar of laughter.

"That old targ's going to be swerving aroun d every speck

of dust between here and Cardassia Prime, thinking each

one's got a photon torpedo buried in it," he

decided. "I think I'll follow him halfway

back and plant one, just to put him out of his misery."

"Be my gor snorted.

"If you ever needed a cure for the randiness

of youth--which I very much doubt--your searches here found

no cure for it."

"All you found here,"

Sisko continued, "was a cheap and easy source

of drevlocet. Isn't that right, Gul Hidret?"

"Drevlocet that the Cardassian High Command

would like to modify to use on Klingons," Kor

finished. "Isn't that right, Gul Hidret?" The

elderly Cardassian grimaced, the wrinkled

canyons of his face growing deep and darkly

shadowed. "I refuse to answer such accusations in

this--this inappropriate setting! I came here in

response to a willful attack against the

Cardassian people, only to find it was a trap!"

Sisko permitted himself a scowl. "Our

diplomats can settle who set the traps in this

system, Gul Hidret. But the fact remains that

this planet beneath us is now its own sovereign state,

subject to no external interference in its ecology

or its affairs."

"Exactly what I'd be the

first to tell you," the elderly Cardassian

insisted. "And just as soon as you release my shuttle

full of emergency medical personnel, I'll be

on my way."

"Good," Kor said. "I hate to break it to you,

old enemy, but your ship seems to have a most

unfortunate attraction to comets. It would be a shame

if one actually penetrated your shields and caused

a hull breach." Snaggle-teeth bared in a grin that

would have done credit to a crocodile. "And the longer you

stay in this area, the more likely that is to happen.

Don't you agree, Captain Sisko?"

"Definitely." Gul

Hidret slapped at his communicator controls,

breaking the connection without another word. Kor

promptly broke into a massive roar of laughter.

"That old targ's going to be swerving around every speck

of dust between here and Cardassia Prime, thinking each

one's got a photon torpedo buried in it," he

decided. "I think I'll follow him halfway

back and plant one, just to put him out of his misery."

"Be my guest." Sisko

nodded at Thornton and O'Brien to disengage.

The Defiant's viewscreen shimmered back to a

view of comet-haloed ships, just in time to show their

tractor beam vanishing. The Klingons' paler beam

twinkled out a moment later, and the Cardassian

shuttle darted back into its launch pad like a reef

fish diving for cover. A moment later, the

battleship's warp nacelles glowed to life and it

was gone, shaking them with the nearness of its jump

to lightspeed. Kor's ship rippled into cloaked

invisibility in that same instant, and Sisko felt

a second wash of ion discharge tremble through his ship.

"Alone at last," said O'Brien, sighing. "Not

quite." Sisko lifted his gaze to the sliver of

Armageddon's--no, Cha'xirrac's--darkened

skies, seeing the charred but living planet beneath that

ashen veil. "We have some new friends to meet,

Chief. Let's hope they're a little easier to get

along with."

"Than the Klingons and

the Cardassians?" Odo snorted. "Captain,

I believe that's what Quark would call an

ears-on certainty."

Kira had climbed out of the cave system feeling

worn, ancient, as battered as the surface of

Cha'xirrac. She'd kept her eyes downcast,

preparing for the onslaught of bright light after hours in

the womblike dark. Instead, a soft grayness

enveloped the world, and the muted features of the terrain

sent her memory tumbling backward a dozen

years. Before the Federation came to safeguard

Bajorm before the Cardassians declared the

planet raped to a shell and no longer worth the

expense to maintain--Kira had walked through this same

armageddon landscape under a different name. Rota

Province had been battered for forty days and forty

nights by every surface-launchable warhead the

Cardassians bothered to keep on Bajor. Not

atomics--the Cardassians were far too frugal

to waste expensive destruction on Bajoran sheep

who had no way to fight back or run. They'd

shattered Rota with slow-moving conventional weaponry,

all because of rumors that the Salbhai resistance

cell had taken up hiding among the homesteads and

villages of that wealthy province. Well, they'd

gotten Salbhai and her fighters, along with eleven

thousand farmers, timbermen, and peng herders. The

resultant desolation looked exactly like

Cha'xirrac did now--soil blasted down to the

bedrock, trees blown down like a children's stick

game, the rivers and marshes choked with carcasses,

mud-slides, and debris. It had been hard

to imagine that anything would ever be able to live in Rota

ever again. And it was hard to imagine Cha'xirrac coming

back to life after such apocalyptic devastation. The

view had not improved much from the roof of a shuttle.

Kira sat, knees hugged to her chest, and

watched a distant curtain of smoke ripple against

a sky only just now dimming down to the color of

natural dawn. No more trees poked their heads

above the tuq'mor canopy. No more banchory

crashed their slow, gentle ways through the foliage.

Only ash pattered like sand through the brush still standing,

tainted with the bitter scent of distant fires.

"Looking for someone?"

She glanced down, startled by Sisko's sudden

presence. "Not really." The smile she forced on his

behalf didn't feel very convincing, and his own amused

expression suggested she could have done better.

Sighing, she scooted toward the front of the small

craft to slide down its nose. "How're

negotiations coming?"

"Very well." The captain stepped

judiciously aside as she jumped to the ground,

neither helping nor hindering her descent. "Actually,

there doesn't seem much to negotiate. The xirri

are still more than happy to share Cha'xirrac with their

Klingon friends, and the Klingons still have nowhere else

to go." He gave a little shrug that Kira thought

indicated acceptance of the situation, although she wasn't

completely sure. "I think the House of Vrag

is relieved to have some purpose here.

Something to call themselves other than "exiles.""

Kira nodded, warding off a thought about how a certain

caliber of Klingon would have worn that label

proudly, and looked out into the wounded tuq'mor again.

If she looked very carefully, she could find a few

spots of defiant green amid the wreckage.

"It looks like we'll be making several trips with the

Victoria Adams's crew," Sisko went on.

"I'd rather not stack them in three deep this time, but I

also don't want to make any more shuttle runs

than absolutely necessary. Our friend George is

busy sorting the survivors into shiploads while the

Klingons work out the terms of an ongoing scientific

study with Dax." Kira nodded, a bit absently.

"He's your secret dignitary--the one Starfleet

didn't want the Klingons to get their hands on."

When Sisko didn't say anything to refute that,

she angled a weary grin up at him. "His name

isn't really George, is it?" Her captain

changed the subject as smoothly as if she'd never

brought it up at all. "So how is Dr. Bashir

holding up?"

"Ledonne says he'll be fine. She's given

him something that'll keep him out until we get back

to the station." She glanced reflexively

back toward the shuttle, even though she couldn't see

inside. "She was doing patient triage with him when

he was kidnapped. I think she's feeling guilty

for not realizing what was happening and doing something to stop

it." Sisko followed her gaze briefly, then

somehow ended up scrutinizing Kira with his head

tipped slightly toward his shoulder. "And what are you

feeling guilty about?" The question caught her without a

ready answer. "I don't know. Nothing."

Everything. She started to pace away from him, aborted

it, and ended up making a frustrated circle that

only put her back where she'd started. "I guess

I just don't understand what Klingon honor is

supposed to be good for," she finally blurted. "What

purpose does it serve to take the best, most noble

members of their society and... sacrifice them!

Why can't there be some middle ground between perfect

compliance to honor and death?"

"Because sometimes perfect compliance is death."

Sisko met her angry glare with a placidity that

said he hadn't been making light of her dilemma.

"Curzon once told me that he didn't think he

would ever fully understand what the Klingons call

honor, even if he had a dozen lifetimes to study

it. In many ways, I think the Klingons

are still learning and refining their

own concepts every day. It's part of what makes a

culture vibrant and adaptive. But it is a

hard thing," he said with resonant seriousness. "A

hard taskmaster. It's not our place to say whether

or not the rewards are worth it.". Federation

rhetoric--noninterference, respect for another

culture's ways. Worse yet, it was rhetoric

Kira's head believed in, even when her heart

ached for want of a better, less tragic way.

"I've often thought honor among Klingons is more

religion than social," Sisko continued, leaning

back against the shuttle's nose and crossing his arms.

"Like fate among Humans, av'adeh'dna among

Vulcans, and pagh among your own people. Honor

isn't just a list of rules that Klingons adhere to the

way you might a recipe. It shapes them, leads

them, determines the character of their souls." He motioned

back toward the huddle of Klingons and xirri

inside the mouth of the caves, and Kira was abruptly

struck with the incongruity of that sight. Of the wondrous

potential represented by a handful of battered

warriors and the small gray-green primates who

had adopted them. "Honor led them here to be

protectors of Cha'xirrac--better

protectors than any combination of starships or

comets could be. They've been reborn, through fire and

ice." He smiled a little at the drama of his words.

"No rebirth ever comes without loss. Epetai

Vrag knew that." He caught Kira's gaze up

in his own. "Maybe honor required a

sacrifice to balance the scales--life for life.

You can't hold it against her if she willingly made

that choice." Perhaps not. But Kira couldn't help

wishing for a solution that didn't require bloodshed

to water the seeds of new life. "Dax says the

planet will recover," she said suddenly. It was

something to hang on to. A memory of Rota

Province as it had been just a few months ago,

soft and green and scattered with delicate prairie

flowers that couldn't have existed in the shadows of

Rota's forests. New life, celebrating with a

song of colors. Someday, this planet would look like

that, too. "So not just a new life for the Klingons,"

Sisko commented. "A whole new existence. A

whole new world."

"Yes." Kira stood up with sudden

decision. "And maybe, if they're lucky, a

whole new meaning of honor. One that involves

cooperation rather than fighting, and survival rather

than sacrifice." Sisko made a somber

noise. "I'm not sure that they'll still be Klingons

then," he said. "And, somehow, I think there will always be

a Day of Honor celebration on Cha'xirrac."

"That's all right."

Kira glanced back at those glints of

water-shielded vegetation, as stubbornly tough as

Klingons and as quietly surprising as the xirri.

"Just as long as it is followed by a Day of

Rebirth."