The Battle Of Betazed Part 6

If the decision had been his, Lemec would never have allied his world with the Dominion. He despised the vat-grown soldiers and their unctuous Vorta keepers. First and foremost, Lemec was a patriot, and he harbored a deep resentment of the alliance that had been bought with Carda.s.sia's independence. Only the chance to be on the winning side in a war against the hated Federation offset being forced to share his command of the Betazed occupation with the Vorta Luaran and her Jem'Hadar.

And if cooperating with the soft-voiced, repellent Luaran strengthened his position as prefect of Betazed and Sentok Nor, then Lemec would swallow his distaste and appear conciliatory. At the present, Luaran was less an impediment to his success and eventual promotion than the ego-driven Dr. Crell Moset, the renowned Carda.s.sian scientist who had set up shop aboard the station to direct the bio-research that the Dominion had made their top priority.

Unfortunately, Moset's insatiable requests for more subjects for his experiments prevented the Betazoids from accepting their fate and cooperating fully with their conquerors. The more civilians Moset required, the more rebellious and entrenched the resistance movement on the planet became. Lemec was counting on Luaran's help to stem Moset's excesses, at least until Lemec could ferret out the resistance leaders and stabilize control of the planet.

He forged his way through the day crew in the operations center to the commander's office and tried to keep his impatience under control. Much to his annoyance, the Vorta had called another meeting of the administrative staff.

He entered the office, and Luaran glided smoothly around the desk to greet him. With difficulty, the Carda.s.sian smothered his frown of distaste. Her frail form and soft pale face offended his sense of aesthetics. Lemec, however, kept his opinions to himself. He would not allow his dislike of Luaran to show. He would hold his tongue and bide his time, hoping for her support in tempering Moset's demands.

Luaran offered the gul his favorite morning beverage of hot fish juice, and he accepted with a curt nod of thanks, then mumbled a greeting to Moset.

The exobiologist was on sabbatical from the University of Culat so that he could contribute to the war effort. Renowned for his brilliance in nonhumanoid exobiology, Moset, in addition to his cla.s.sified experiments, oversaw the production of Jem'Hadar on the station. With a weathered visage and graying hair, Moset had entered Luaran's office humming as if he had no cares in the world. He was always humming, Lemec thought with irritation. Someday he was going to stuff a combat boot down the doctor's throat to shut him up and give a poor gul some peace. Apparently unaware of how much his habit annoyed others, Moset brushed a speck of lint from his laboratory coat and accepted a cup of hot fish juice.

"I need more Betazoid subjects," Moset demanded before the Vorta had a chance to state the purpose of her meeting.

The muscles in Luaran's face tensed slightly before returning to their customary calm. "You have received an adequate number."

"Yes," Lemec agreed. "Use the ones already being stored in the docking ring."

"They don't have the appropriate genetic markers."

"Then send them back to the planet," Lemec insisted. "They're a drain on our resources."

"They will be of use later, once I've broken the genetic code." Moset glared at Lemec. "If you'd bring me half as many subjects as you've been executing, I'd have what I need."

Lemec was unperturbed by the accusation. He would not tolerate insurrection and sabotage.

"You're shooting Betazoids?" The disapproval in the Vorta's voice was muted but unmistakable. "Can't you find a better way to control them?"

"The ones on the planet were shot as an example against their resistance movement," Lemec said. "The ones executed on the station were attempting to destroy our production of ketracel-white. I think you'll agree that we must deter both."

"I remind you, Gul," Moset said, "that my research is the reason we are here at all. But I cannot do my job if you keep shooting prisoners I could use-"

"You won't have a job or a life if I don't keep this station safe." With the greatest effort, Lemec reined in his temper another notch. "In the past few days we've found ruptured EPS conduits, sabotaged replicator systems, and turbolifts that stop only between decks. Defective airlocks are a constant problem. I suspect the slave laborers did much of their sabotage during the building of the station, but only now is the full scope of the damage they inflicted becoming known. The new laborers are equally duplicitous. Their telepathic abilities inform them of what's happening in your laboratories, Moset, and they're rebelling against it."

"That's why I called you here today," Luaran told them. "We must rectify these problems."

"I need more Carda.s.sian troops," Lemec answered. "Thanks to the good doctor's experiments, we can't even keep Jem'Hadar soldiers aboard the station. Those we breed here have to be ferried to the surface before they reach maturity. We should request reinforcements for the station from Carda.s.sia Prime."

The Vorta folded her arms over her narrow chest and shook her head. "We have the full allocation. The others are needed elsewhere."

Lemec started to press the issue, but held his tongue at the determination in her expression. Moset, however, seemed not to know when to quit.

"Give me the rebellious Betazoids instead of executing them," he pleaded. "It's just senseless killing."

Lemec's derisive laugh escaped before he could squelch it. "I wouldn't think the man who experimented on living Bajorans and killed thousands in his so-called hospital would be so sensitive."

Moset frowned. "You're a fool, Lemec. My concern is for my work-not the welfare of my subjects." The doctor's lips quivered in outrage. "Minds far superior to yours respect my genius. The Legate's Crest of Valor for my work on the Fostossa virus is proof of that."

"You know where you can put your Legate's Crest," Lemec said with a snarl.

"Gentlemen." Luaran held up her hands, her violet eyes glowering. "I expect you to do your jobs, which"-she smiled with irritating sweetness-"you cannot do if you are quarreling with one another."

Lemec nodded in reluctant acquiescence. "Luaran," he said, forcing his voice to sound calm and reasonable, "I cannot adequately govern both the planet and the station without more Carda.s.sian soldiers. And commandeering additional Betazoids from the planet will only compound the station's-and the planet's-security problems."

"I implore you," Moset's voice swelled with pa.s.sion. "I cannot continue my research until I have Betazoids with the appropriate genetic makeup. And," he added as if in afterthought, "the Dominion must have a steady supply of Jem'Hadar and ketracel-white to keep up the war effort. I need slave laborers to help with production."

Lemec bit his tongue. Moset didn't give a vole's a.s.s about the Dominion war effort. All the d.a.m.ned doctor cared about was his cursed science. But the crafty Moset had taken the tack that Luaran would favor.

She nodded in calm agreement with Moset. "I have been given specific instructions by the Founders to do whatever is necessary to facilitate your project, Doctor. You have my personal a.s.surance that more Betazoids will be rounded up."

Moset preened at his victory, and lorded over Lemec with a triumphant grin.

Luaran turned to Lemec with an apologetic smile. "As for you, Gul ... Please don't shoot them."

Breathing deeply, Dal Cobrin fought against claustrophobia and tried to estimate how long he'd been in the capsule that enclosed him. The bright lights burned without ceasing in the Carda.s.sian doctor's laboratory on the s.p.a.ce station, so Dal had no method of calibrating time. It seemed like months since the Jem'Hadar had grabbed him and loaded him, along with dozens of other frightened Betazoids, onto the freighter headed for Sentok Nor. Once aboard the station, he'd been transported directly from the docking ring into the tiny container that held him now.

From what he'd managed to ascertain from his fellow Betazoids, they had all been similarly imprisoned, confined in these narrow tubes and further restrained by some kind of energy field. Their minds had been unimpaired, but Dal had long ago begun to wish for blessed unconsciousness. The knowledge that he and his friend Ellum were the last of the dozens who'd accompanied them to the station brought him no satisfaction, only the certainty that either he or Ellum would be the next victim of Dr. Crell Moset.

Dal no longer cherished any hope for survival. Moset's a.s.sistants had transferred one Betazoid after another from the pods to the laboratory tables. Dal had been painfully aware of the agonies they'd suffered there. None of them had ever returned to their pods.

Now he wished he'd volunteered to be the first chosen from his group. In the beginning they had died quickly, but Moset must have learned in the interim how to keep his subjects alive longer, although the result of his experiments was always the same-death.

Not all Moset's subjects had died, however. Dal was aware of the presence of others scattered throughout the station, but most were in a deeper state of stasis than Dal's companions had been and were unable to communicate. Only his highly developed telepathy allowed him to sense the ones that were still alive.

Knowing his inescapable fate, lying paralyzed day after day, week after week, while his fellow Betazoids died under Moset's painful ministrations, had been its own kind of torture. Not only had Dal had to listen to the screams, he'd had to feel their terrible fear and acute pain. Dal felt as if Moset snuffed out his life over and over again.

His only hope of escape was a speedy death.

He attempted to focus his thoughts away from the gruesome activities of the lab, to console himself with memories of his childhood, a happy time free of worry and pain. He remembered his first glimpse of his wife Lorella during his days at the university. Their favorite meeting place had been the botanical garden, filled with fragrant flowering plants and exotic off-world greenery. Later, he'd enjoyed his a.s.signment as a science teacher at his first post in the Northern School District.

He worried now over what had happened to Lorella and the children. Were they even still alive?

He and his family had survived the initial invasion and had immediately joined the resistance. The Jem'Hadar had captured him while he'd been on a reconnaissance mission. They'd stunned him and detained him in a holding cell until they'd gathered enough prisoners to ship to the station. At least, thank the G.o.ds, his wife and children had escaped his fate. Moset and his a.s.sistants, however, had often discussed among themselves the fact that the resistance had been destroyed, so Dal doubted that any of his family still lived.

A weak mental whimper emanated from the mind of a woman who lay strapped to Moset's table, and Dal's nerve endings burned with empathy for her horrible pain. He hoped, if his family were dead, that they'd died quickly. Some things were worse than death.

He'd often wished he could emulate the selfless att.i.tude of the Jem'Hadar. Along with Betazoids, these soldiers also served as subjects of Moset's deadly experiments. The Jem'Hadar had no fear. Their only thoughts were to serve the Founders, and apparently they had no qualms over dying for their cause, whether in battle or under Moset's knife.

As hard as he'd tried, Dal could find no purpose to Moset's experiments. He knew enough science to hazard many guesses, but none seemed reasonable. Of one thing, however, Dal was certain. Moset was insane, and that very insanity made it impossible to divine the doctor's intent.

Moset and his a.s.sistants entered the laboratory, signaling the beginning of another round of tests-and probably the beginning of Dal's last hours, as well. He faced the prospect stoically. Days ago, his fear had given way to resignation. Dying on one of those surgical tables would be his fate.

An a.s.sistant approached Dal's capsule and manipulated the controls. In a sparkle of light, Dal was transported to a laboratory table and strapped down firmly. His mind searched for Ellum and found him still in his pod. His poor friend. He would face one more cold day of life alone.

Moset ignored both Dal and the Jem'Hadar who had entered and lain calmly down on the adjacent table without coercion. The doctor frowned at the information on his padd, then performed a microcellular scan on both his subjects, a procedure Dal recognized that would give Moset readings of the cells' functions at the molecular level. Dal, however, had no idea what the scientist was searching for. He simply took a perverse satisfaction in the Carda.s.sian's obvious irritation with the results.

"Place neurocortical monitors on both subjects," Moset ordered.

An a.s.sistant placed the devices on Dal's and the Jem'Hadar's foreheads. The monitors would record encephalographic data.

"Configure the Betazoid's monitor to alarm when critical psilosynine readings are detected in his brain," Moset added.

The paralyzing effects of the stasis field no longer held Dal, but full-body restraints prevented any movement. Stronger people than he had struggled against them and failed to break free. Dal didn't even try.

Instead, he attempted again to determine the nature of Moset's experiments. Dal was just a science teacher, not a doctor, but he knew that every Betazoid possessed psilosynine, a neurotransmitter chemical. Was Moset trying to engineer some kind of microorganism to attack cells with a specific DNA sequence? But if so, why? Killing the Betazoid population made no sense. The Dominion's mandate was to expand their empire, not destroy their enemies. Genocide was not their goal. Not usually, at any rate.

Dal caught sight of Moset's expression, and the scientist's single-minded determination frightened him. The width and scope of Moset's experiments reflected their importance to the Carda.s.sian and Dominion alliance, but Dal couldn't figure out what Moset hoped to gain from performing cranial surgeries, extracting genetic material from healthy Betazoids, and implanting that material in Jem'Hadar.

Following his usual procedure, Moset and his team began with the Jem'Hadar. Using a gleaming archaic scalpel, the scientist peeled back the skin at the forehead. A high-powered saw cut through the cranial bone and exposed the underlying brain tissue. Through the entire procedure, the Jem'Hadar exhibited not one flicker of pain.

Then it was Dal's turn.

"Increase neural stimulation to the Betazoid," Moset directed. "Increase neurogenic radiation."

Pain blossomed through Dal's head. He grunted and would have writhed from the agony if the restraints had not held him.

Let this be over quickly, he prayed.

"Use a hypospray on the Jem'Hadar," Moset said.

"For pain?" the a.s.sistant asked.

Moset shook his head with impatience. "Use the paralyzing agent to keep him from moving."

The a.s.sistant rushed to comply.

"Drechtal beam," Moset said.

An a.s.sistant handed him the device, and Moset employed it. "I've severed the neural connections. Now, apply the bioregenerative field. I need maximum accelerated cell growth."

"Bioregenerative field applied."

Moset moved to Dal's side. "Increase the neural stimulation again for the Betazoid."

As if his mind were suddenly on fire, Dal convulsed at the pain.

Through a haze of agony, he heard Moset order the plasma infusion unit. The fluids and electrolytes it dispensed were one of Moset's measures intended to keep Dal alive as long as possible.

He tried to beg them to stop, but no words left his mouth, only a piercing primal scream.

Something stabbed the back of his neck, and even through his pain, Dal knew they were extracting matter directly from his brain.

"Apply the sonic separator and the trilaser connector," Moset ordered. "Quickly. Quickly."

"We're losing the Jem'Hadar."

Over his own suffering, the dying soldier's confusion and agony registered in Dal's mind.

"The Betazoid is dying," Moset's angry voice announced. "He's no use to me now."

Dal tensed as heat burned his brain. Then blessed blackness claimed him and ended his agony.

Chapter Seven.

"E NERGIZE," R IKER ORDERED.

The first officer waited with Deanna Troi in Transporter Room Three for the remaining key officers of the mission to come aboard the Enterprise.

"Aye, sir." The technician initiated transport.

On the transporter pad, beamed energy solidified into the forms of two old friends: Chief Miles Edward O'Brien and Lieutenant Commander Worf.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." Riker greeted both arrivals with a broad grin.

"Commander," Worf said with a nod.

"I trust your journey went well, Mr. Worf?" Riker asked.

The Klingon nodded again. "Admiral Ross's order to divert to Starbase 133 came just after the successful completion of our mission to Bolarus. The Defiant and its crew are at your service." Never especially talkative unless duty demanded it, Worf seemed even more distant than usual.

Not surprising, given his recent loss, Riker thought.

O'Brien, by contrast, seemed as warm as ever, though it was immediately apparent that the war had aged the engineer, deepening the furrows on his forehead beneath his curly chestnut hair and adding fresh lines to bracket his mouth and merry eyes.

"h.e.l.lo, sir. Counselor," he said. "Keiko sends her love."

Riker acknowledged the greeting from O'Brien's wife, but his eyes were drawn to Deanna and Worf. Ignoring the Klingon's inflexible military bearing, Deanna had stepped forward and warmly embraced her old shipmate and former lover.

The meeting was not their first since their fleeting romance had ended, but none of them had seen Worf since the death of his wife, Jadzia, another casualty of war, killed only two months ago.

Typically, Worf bore no outward sign of grief on his dark face, his expression as stiff as the ridges on his forehead, but it didn't take much empathy to feel the man's heartache. Will knew Deanna would want to comfort Worf, to help ease his loss, but she and Worf both had jobs to do. The war wouldn't allow time for any but the briefest acknowledgment of the tragic changes in their lives.

After a quick and awkward embrace, Worf stepped back from her. His dark eyes spoke volumes. "I grieve for the loss of your world, Deanna."

Deanna placed her hand over Worf's doubled hearts. "And I grieve for the loss of yours."

Seeing Worf and being reminded of his wife's death brought home to Riker that he could take nothing for granted. But brooding over the losses and upcoming danger would do none of them any good. Forcing his mind back to his duties, Riker motioned toward the door. "Forgive the rush, gentlemen," he said, "but we're expected at the mission briefing. If you'll kindly follow me ..."

"This is insane," Riker blurted at Vaughn a short time later.

From his position at the opposite end of the conference table in the observation lounge, Captain Picard wasn't surprised by the outburst. He constantly relied on his first officer to speak his mind, though usually not so forcefully.