The Dominion War_ Behind Enemy Lines Part 5

"I'll do it," he said. "I won't be going back to Pod Eighteen, will I?"

"No," answered Joulesh. "Would you be afraid for your safety?"

Sam smiled. "Around here, I'm always afraid for my safety."

"Eat," said the Founder, sounding like a friendly relative. He wasn't exactly androgynous, but his masculine traits were underplayed. Sam imagined that he could just as easily present a pseudo-female facade. The creature was fascinating to study, up close, and it was all Sam could do not to ask him to morph into a chair. He tried to imagine what it was like on their home planet, where they merged into a sea of their kind called the Great Link.

Sam fought the temptation to ask this advanced being why it was so important to conquer the Alpha Quadrant. He supposed it was the same arrogance that had driven Europeans to conquer the Americas or Carda.s.sians to conquer Bajor-a certainty of their moral and intellectual superiority.

With the slightest nod from the Founder, the Jem'Hadar guards suddenly picked up the basin and carried it out of the room. The Founder walked after them, and the two Vorta brought up the rear of the entourage. This left Sam alone with Professor Grof, plus enough food for a barracks.

"They're not much for good-byes," remarked the human.

"I think the Founder was tired," said Grof. "He probably has to revert to his liquid form soon. Dominion upper management is spread very thinly through the Alpha Quadrant. Besides, they got what they came for."

"Me?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Yes, but you could have shown them more respect. This is quite an honor."

"So everyone tells me." Sam glanced around the room. "Can I speak freely in here? Are we being watched?"

"Don't bother bawling me out," said the Trill. "You were going to tell me that I'm a traitor, a collaborator, and so on and so forth. You're going to say that we ought to escape, or sabotage the artificial wormhole. Well, let me tell you-what we're building here will last longer than either the Dominion or the Federation. The war will be a footnote to this invention. I'm on the side of science, and what we're building is going to revolutionize the galaxy."

"At what cost?" asked Sam. "You would destroy a federation of hundreds of planets for a machine? Whose side are you on? Are you a prisoner here, or are you one of the jailers?"

Grof scowled and lowered his voice. "I'm both. I want to see my work to fruition, and I'm not going to let politics stand in the way. I would like to take my findings to the Federation. In fact, I hope that this work brings both sides together, and ends this stupid war. Meanwhile, I'm still a prisoner. Would I welcome a chance to escape? Perhaps at a later date, but only if it's foolproof."

Sam picked up a slice of yellow melon and took a bite. The delicious juice ran down his beard. "You're obviously doing something right to have all of this handed to you."

"I'm just doing my job," snapped Grof.

At that moment, Sam decided not to trust Enrak Grof, who seemed entirely too wrapped up in his own self-interests. Sam would plan his escape without the Trill, unless his partic.i.p.ation was absolutely necessary ... and foolproof.

"What's the ship like?" asked Sam.

"It's a Carda.s.sian antimatter tanker, specially equipped. You start training on it right away. You will need additional crew of six, and Joulesh and I have prepared a preliminary list of names. We have everyone we need right here."

"I'm sure of that," muttered Sam.

Grof ignored his sarcasm and went on, "We need two specialists in material handling, a tractor-beam specialist, and a senior transporter operator."

"And Taurik. I want the Vulcan."

"That leaves one more," said Grof. "Me."

Sam blinked at him. "You're going along on this mining expedition?"

"Everything depends upon it," answered the Trill. "Now that their engineers have been proven wrong, it's up to us to finish the job. And show them how valuable we are."

"How dangerous is this going to be?"

The Trill smiled. "Only as dangerous as we make it."

"It's too dangerous," insisted Will Riker. "Captain, please, I beg you to reconsider."

Captain Picard, who was lying on an operating table in sickbay, closed his eyes and tried to block out the concerned voice of his first officer. He concentrated instead on the sound of Dr. Crusher and Nurse Ogawa preparing their instruments. It sounded like fine silverware in use at a banquet.

"Captain, we have many other people who could do this mission," insisted Riker.

"Nonsense," said Picard. "We're so shorthanded that every able-bodied crew member is indispensable. The fact is, you can captain the ship, making me more dispensable than the majority of the crew. I also have the most expertise working with Ro Laren, and she can be a bit p.r.i.c.kly."

"She's one of the reasons this is so dangerous," growled Riker with frustration.

"I'm sure Mr. La Forge and I can handle whatever she throws at us." Literally and figuratively, Picard thought, recalling her formidable fighting spirit. "And Data will keep us on long-range scans."

"What if he loses you in the Badlands?" Riker persisted.

"Nothing is without risk, Number One. If we need rescuing, we'll release our subs.p.a.ce beacon with a coded distress signal."

"Still, Captain-"

The captain finally opened his eyes and gazed sympathetically at his first officer. "You won't be able to talk me out of it, Will. The truth is, I need a break from this. .h.i.t-and-run fighting, and you're better at it than I am. If I can investigate Ro's story, I'll feel I'm making a difference."

"I hope this isn't a wild-goose chase."

"I hope it is," said Picard gravely. "A false rumor-even a trap intended to catch us-would be preferable to finding an artificial wormhole in Dominion control. If we find that it actually exists, then the fate of the Federation rests upon our actions, right here."

Riker scratched his beard. "I suppose it's pointless to tell you to be careful in the middle of a war, but be careful."

"You, too."

Beverly Crusher strode over to the table and shook her head. "Captain Riker, your persistence will be duly noted in my log, but you failed yet again to talk some sense into him. That makes two of us. Now we need to get on with the procedure, because I have a full schedule of appointments today."

Riker glanced quickly at the tiny implants resting on a tray held by Nurse Ogawa. Picard tried not to look too closely at them either. When he awoke, his face would be altered to look Bajoran, and he would be given an earring.

"I'll check on the repairs to the Orb of Peace," promised Riker as he backed out of the operating room.

Brandishing a hypospray, Beverly gave the captain a professional smile. "Relax, Jean-Luc. I have to give you an anesthetic, but you'll only be out for a short time."

Picard nodded, thinking that he wouldn't mind a few minutes of blissful ignorance. As he felt the pressure of the hypo on his neck, he allowed his tense shoulders to relax. The urge to do something would soon be over. Like Don Quixote, he would be chasing either windmills or the biggest dragon in the kingdom.

Sam Lavelle stood on the somber, gray bridge of the Tag Garwal, studying schematics of the antimatter tanker under his command. Sam had studied Carda.s.sian vessels for years, and never more intently than in the weeks leading up to the war. This design was well known, on a par with Starfleet tankers of similar vintage. The Tag Garwal was no speed demon or luxury liner, but it was built to be st.u.r.dy, dependable, and uncomplicated. Sam didn't think he and his handpicked crew would have any trouble mastering the craft.

Professor Grof sat at an auxiliary console, running diagnostics on the tractor beam and the transporters a deck below them. He occasionally glanced at Sam to see what he was doing. The uncomfortable silence between them was beginning to make Sam nervous, and he tried to think of a subject safe enough for small talk.

"Thank you for translating the manuals," said Sam.

"You're welcome," replied Grof brusquely. "But that was really Joulesh's idea. Are you satisfied with the ship?"

"I won't know for sure until I take her for a little spin."

"About those little spins," said Grof. "You'll be closely watched. An attempt to make a break for it would be suicide."

"You don't have to lay the company line on me," said Sam angrily. "I know how things work around here. We're more expendable than the Jem'Hadar, or even the Carda.s.sians ..."

"You may be expendable, but I'm not!" protested Grof. "I'm irreplaceable, no matter who wins this thing."

"Don't you even care!" Sam scowled. "Why should you? You're already on their side."

"There's more to being a prisoner than your feeble mind can envision!" hissed the Trill. "The Federation is the power in the Alpha Quadrant, and that's why the Dominion is testing us. Although you can't see it, everything we do in this secret complex is being judged and tested. For example, you had no idea they were paying such close attention to you, but your ability to voice dissatisfaction while being calm and reasonable was very impressive to them."

Grof sighed with frustration. "As you know, the Dominion has no real faith in the Carda.s.sians-they're just convenient locals. Someday this war will be over, and we'll have to live with the Dominion. If you and I are a success on this mission, the worth of the entire Federation will go up in the eyes of the Founders."

"Oh, wonderful. Do you think they'll give me a promotion?" Sam winced, knowing that he was losing the battle to avoid controversial subjects. He had to end this topic, before he said something he regretted to this traitor.

"Listen, Grof, I'll do the mission, and I'll work with them-but don't expect me to like it. I'm in this for survival, not science, or to score brownie points."

The Trill looked deeply disappointed, but he managed to say, "As long as your att.i.tude remains pragmatic, we should succeed."

"Fine," snapped Sam. Although he knew he should keep his mouth shut, he didn't like Enrak Grof. There had to be some way to needle him without talking local politics.

"So, what's it like to be an unjoined Trill?" asked Sam.

Grof snorted. "You mean, what's it like to be a second-cla.s.s citizen? Imagine your planetary society has a small segment of people who are automatically considered superior to everyone else, and they automatically get the best careers. Imagine that these people have several lifetimes of experience to draw upon, and you're just starting the only lifetime you will ever get. How would you like to compete against them?"

"I take it you didn't pa.s.s the program?"

"No, I failed," admitted Grof. "My field docent didn't like my att.i.tude, or some such. Of course, when eighteen initiates apply for every available symbiont, they can afford to be choosy."

"So you found a field in which to excel, to spite them."

Grof's dour, hirsute face broke into a slight smile. "I suppose I can thank them for some of my ambition and drive. But I firmly believe that I would have been doing this same work even if I had joined with a symbiont."

"Maybe that's why they didn't take you," said Sam, "too headstrong."

Grof frowned. "At any rate, it has taken me twice as long to have my work and my theories recognized. I should have led teams on which I was only a member, because we had to have a joined Trill in charge."

"But the Dominion accepted you right from the start," said Sam, putting it all together.

"Yes," snapped the Trill. "Being unjoined has never been a detriment here. They recognized me as a man of science. In many respects, the Dominion represents a clean slate for the Alpha Quadrant."

"That seems to be what they're going for-a clean slate with us wiped out. And you're helping them." Sam inwardly cursed his one-track mind. This was the very same conversation he had just tried to derail.

Grof stroked his beard and looked around. Then he lowered his voice to say, "Don't you see, this technology cuts both ways-it allows us to attack them through wormholes of our making. It democratizes the galaxy."

He shook his spotted head. "To depend on a natural wormhole inhabited by semi-mythological beings-only seen by one person-is absurd. What we're creating here is the transportation of the future, as important as warp drive or artificial gravity! Ships won't need to carry dangerous fuel like antimatter, because artificial wormholes will take you to the next solar system or the next quadrant in seconds."

"And with slave labor, you'll have plenty of people to keep building them," muttered Sam. "But suppose I'm hardly any better than you. My friends think I'm a brave soul who disappeared fighting the good fight, and here I am with decent food and my own ship. That reminds me, where do I sleep?"

"Right here." Grof motioned around the cramped, utilitarian bridge. "The captain's quarters are quite nice, I understand. There is even a sleeping alcove directly behind us, off the bridge."

Sam looked behind him and saw a small, curtained lounge where there would be a ready room on a Starfleet vessel. "Yes, this crate was built for long-range hauls. Well, if this is going to be home for a while, let's see what kind of entertainment we have."

He tapped the console, and the main viewscreen flickered on. A row of closed airlocks greeted Sam's eyes for a few seconds; then the angle cut to a view of empty cargo holds, followed by vistas of the verteron collider and the prison complex. To Sam's delight, the spheres and shafts of the complex did look like a giant molecule floating in s.p.a.ce.

"Hey, we're patched into the security feed," said Sam. "There's nothing like being part of the gang."

They were treated to several tantalizing glimpses of various s.p.a.cecraft docked around an outer sphere. Sam plied the console and found a way to cycle more quickly through the images until he found their own oblong tanker. Its hull was gray with yellow stripes, and it was mostly featureless except for the dents and pits.

"That's us, huh? We won't win any beauty contests."

Sam continued paging through the images until they had inspected a number of interesting locations, including laboratories, factories, and guard posts. He could see Grof getting nervous about scanning the security channel, and he was about to stop when they were suddenly thrust into a women's prison pod. Sam looked away with embarra.s.sment, hoping the scene would switch soon.

A blur of action caught his eye, and Sam looked back at the screen to see a squad of twenty or so Carda.s.sians rush into the pod. The Carda.s.sians were wielding clubs and were wearing vests, helmets, and riot gear; they quickly surrounded the unarmed prisoners. The free-cycling program chose that moment to cut to another pod, which was full of bedrolls but otherwise empty. Sam frantically worked the controls, trying to page back to the first pod.

"Don't," said Grof softly.

Sam ignored him and finally cut back to the occupied pod. Two Carda.s.sian guards were holding a woman by her arms and shaking her violently, while a glinn grilled her. There was no sound, and Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the viewscreen to find it on the console. The other guards herded the prisoners away from the action, but the women pushed closer, anxious to see what was happening to their comrade. It looked like a disaster in the making, and Sam gripped the handrail in front of him.

Sure enough, when the glinn struck the woman across her face, her fellow prisoners revolted. This resulted in a ruthless crackdown, as the club-wielding Carda.s.sians waded into the women, forcing them against the walls. As Sam watched in horror, he was glad there was no sound.

Grof finally reached over and pounded the console, turning off the viewscreen. By the stricken look on his face, it seemed as if the Trill was about to have a heart attack, or maybe an attack of conscience.

"See, they have a good use for the Carda.s.sians," hissed Sam. "I'm not sure Federation personnel could replace them."

Grof sputtered, looking as if he wanted to say something but had no words. He hurried off the bridge of the Tag Garwal, and Sam heard his footsteps clomping down a ladder to the lower deck.

Despite a rush of murderous impulses, Sam tried to stay calm. He thought about turning the viewscreen back on, but what was the point? His hatreds were already etched into his soul, and watching more atrocities wouldn't change anything. He had to maintain his cool, jaded facade until there came a chance to strike hard against the Dominion-or die trying.

Eventually Sam put on the viewscreen, but he tuned it to an innocuous view of the starscape, dominated by the swirling gases and dust of the Badlands. In all of this vast universe was there no one to help them? Where was the might of Starfleet, and the vaunted resources of the Federation?

For all he knew, the war could be over, and no one was out there to give a d.a.m.n. In which case, maybe he should be looking out for number one, as he pretended.

Sam reclined in the alcove off the bridge and tried to sleep, but his mind kept dwelling on images of s.p.a.ce-suited prisoners, exploding like balloons in the cold darkness of s.p.a.ce.

Ro Laren stood on the bridge of the Orb of Peace, marveling at the appearance of her crew. Dressed in rust-colored uniforms with dangling earrings and p.r.o.nounced nose ridges, they could have been the cream of Bajoran youth. Of course, there was the older Bajoran sitting at the conn station. He was mostly bald except for two tufts of unruly gray hair hanging over his ears, which made him look vaguely absurd and absentminded, like an old librarian. His earring was also slightly askew, and Ro couldn't help but to smile at her former captain.

"She's your ship," said the pilot. "Take her out."

"I'm going to need a code name to call you by," said Ro. "Your real name is a bit too well known. Do you know who you remind me of? Boothby, the old gardener at the Academy."

Picard grinned. "That's quite a compliment, as I had Boothby in mind when we devised this disguise. Not very Bajoran, of course, but it will pa.s.s for a nickname-and a code name."