ON THE grimly utilitarian decks of the Swift Striker, all the crew was in a state of knife-edged suspense, waiting for the Gul to return from the station, where he was delivering the official Cardassian demands to the Starfleet commander. Crewmen stood in clusters in the barracks, outside the heads, lining up for their meals in front of the galley, speculating as to what the outcome would be. Here and there officers ordered the groups to break up and get to work, but the excitement gripped the upper ranks, too. It was taken for granted that the Federation would refuse the Gul's demands. Then it would be war!
The more belligerent among the crew gleefully anticipated an order to stand away from Deep Space Nine and open fire with their whole array of phasers. But cooler heads argued against this probability. The space station, they pointed out, was the key to controlling the wormhole. They wanted to retake it, not destroy it.
All the talk was all conjecture, anyway. The Gul certainly didn't make a practice of discussing his strategy down on the lower deck.
As for Berat, he was almost insensate with exhaustion. Orders had come down that the Swift Striker had to be in spotless order before it docked, everything scrubbed and polished as if the Fleet Admiral were waiting over there on DS-Nine, ready to conduct an inspection. The burden, of course, fell most heavily on maintenance and engineering staff. For once, Berat wasn't the only one working back-to-back shifts. But he still felt as if he had personally scraped the crud from every centimeter of hull and deck plating on the ship, polished every hand railing, every viewport. His only consolation was that the officers were too busy to single him out for particular abuse.
But the results of their work were plainly visible once the ship was docked. Next to the proudly gleaming Swift Striker, Deep Space Nine appeared battered and neglected, exactly what anyone would expect from Bajoran management, even with the Federation nominally in charge. The superiority of Cardassian discipline was clear to be seen by anyone.
Despite discipline, however, most of the crew was looking avidly forward to liberty on DS-Nine. Since several of them had been on the station before, they were well aware of the diversions and amusements to be found on the legendary Promenade level. Anarchy, after all, did have its advantages, compared with disciplined Cardassian austerity. Seated at the well-worn metal tables in the lower-deck galley, these veterans described the anticipated delights to their crewmates. On DS-Nine, there were exotic liquors strong enough to take off the top of a man's skull and leave him prostrate three days afterward. Games of chance, especially the Dabo tables presided over by exotic females in scanty, alluring attire. And holosuites that offered erotic fantasies beyond the possibilities of the average crewman's imagination. Berat was forced to endure overhearing lengthy recitations of exactly what his fellow crewmen intended to do in those holosuites.
There was a predictable reaction, then, when the Gul returned from the station with the announcement that liberty parties would be limited to fifteen members and for no longer than a duty shift.
As the men stood at attention, cursing under their breath, their commander's voice over the comm went on:
"There are ambassadors from a number of important governments on DS-Nine at this time. I want no incidents that would cast any discredit on Cardassian discipline. There will be no weapons taken aboard the station. There will be no violence, no assaults, no rapes, no confrontation with Federation personnel or natives. In short, there will be no complaints about any member of this crew. Any man who causes a problem onstation will spend a long, long time cursing his own mother for giving him birth."
The muttering among the crew mostly subsided to sullen looks. Gul Marak had not earned the reputation of a commander who made idle threats.
As for Berat, he hadn't expected liberty, anyway, and DS-Nine was the last place he would have wanted to spend it. But he wasn't immune to the consequences of the general dissatisfaction. As soon as he reported for his next duty shift, he caught the vengeful look in Subofficer Halek's eye.
Halek tapped his data clip meaningfully. "Well, Technician Berat, since you did such an excellent job with the main personnel airlock the other day, I think it'd be a good idea if you refitted the supply and emergency locks, too. Get moving!"
Berat groaned inwardly. As weary as he was, he felt a return of apprehension. He knew that the work had already been done in the general preparation for docking, but he said nothing. While he didn't know exactly what they were planning, he feared that working him to death wouldn't be enough for his enemies.
They went first to the airlock in supply hold C, a vast, stark metal cavern filled with the necessary supplies for a warship crewed by over seven hundred men. The lock, of course, was in perfect working order, but Halek ignored that detail and ordered Berat to work, keeping up a running stream of curses and abuse.
"This lock has a pressure leak. Take the whole thing down and reset the seals. No—did I tell you to check the pressure? I said to take down the farking door!"
Berat hesitated. The supply airlocks were oversized. Taking one of them down was a job meant for two men. But he had no choice. It was an order. He started to disengage the door from its tracks. But with the heavy circular panel half free and half still in the track, he felt his grip on it slipping. With a whispered curse, he tried to hang on, but his hands were slick with lubricant from the tracks, and the weight slipped again, pinning his fingers between the door and the bottom track.
The pain made white starbursts behind his eyes, and he gasped through clenched teeth. There would be no help from Halek, he knew that much. With a painful effort, he shifted the door with his good hand enough to free the other. Gingerly, he tried to flex the fingers. They didn't seem to be broken, but livid parallel welts were branded on them, and one had a bleeding gash across the knuckle.
A kick from the toe of Halek's boot struck him in the ribs. "What the flakk are you waiting for? Get that door off! And I want to hear any excuses!"
From his knees, Berat silently cursed Halek, the door, the Swift Striker, and its commander—all his tormentors. Then he took the pry bar and levered the door up again, managed to get it disengaged and set aside. It was a simple matter to reset the seals. But then he had to lift the door up again and reengage it, all with no help from Halek but a constant flow of abusive orders and blows.
He finished, finally. Hit the control pad. The door hissed smoothly: open and shut again. He wanted to turn on Halek, say something like, "I did it. You thought it would break me, but you couldn't do it."
But he only looked down at the deck.
"All right! Let's go! Pick up your tools, Berat. There's the two emergency locks on this level we haven't checked yet. How much do you want to bet that they'll have pressure leaks, too? And don't think you're going to be off this shift until they're finished!"
"But … Sub. The airlock. The pressure check—"
"Did I tell you to check the pressure? You follow orders, Berat, or I'll have your hide hanging off you in strips! Now move!"
Berat picked up his tools, but he hesitated again. Regulations mandated a pressure check every time there was maintenance or repair to an airlock—it was a basic safety precaution, which Halek knew perfectly well. On the other hand, Halek had given him a direct order. He couldn't disobey. But if he followed the order, he knew who would take the blame for omitting the pressure check. And if something went wrong—Berat had a sudden sinking feeling that something was meant to go wrong.
Still, he protested again, "Sub, regulations—"
A mailed hand hit him in the mouth, and Berat tasted his own blood. Halek was grinning as he said, "So, Berat, you finally refuse a direct order? It's about time!" He pulled back his hand for another blow, and Berat broke, reacting without thought. With a desperate surge of strength, he flung the tool kit at Halek, striking him across the side of the face. As the subofficer staggered, Berat saw him groping for his phaser. Berat fell on him, grabbing the pry bar that he'd used to disengage the airlock door. The feel of the hard metal bar in his hand gave him a sudden surge of exhilaration. He hit hard, had the satisfaction of hearing bones crack as the phaser fell to the deck.
He snatched up the weapon, but standing there holding it, seeing Halek writhe in pain on the deck, Berat felt dread clutch at his belly. The image of his father's execution swam in front of his eyes. He knew that he was finished, now. Gul Marak had all the excuse he needed to hang him—and more. He had acted on desperate impulse, in self-defense, but that meant nothing. This was an assault on a superior officer: a capital offense. There would be no mercy from Gul Marak, no consideration of extenuating circumstances. This was what they'd been waiting for.
He looked down at his tormentor, and Halek stared back at the phaser aimed at him, suddenly still. So, Berat thought. This was the end. No way out. But it was an opportunity for vengeance, at least. An enemy life to set against his father's. If he was going to die, let him die for this, instead of on some petty, trumped-up charge.
But even as he gathered his resolve to fire, Berat paused. No way out? No escape? When only a few meters away, on the station, was Bajoran territory, beyond Gul Marak's long reach.
No. It was no good. But the surge of hope made him look back again. There was more than one way off the ship. At least one of the emergency ports had to be connected to the station, he knew quite well, because this was a Cardassian ship and a Cardassian station, and that's how it was always done: a backup port was always engaged in case the main airlock malfunctioned. In case someone had forgotten to do a pressure check.
He looked at the phaser, back at Halek, then at the phaser again. If he was going to escape, he'd need time. He couldn't risk them coming after him.
He pressed the trigger, there was a brief burst of fire from the phaser, and Halek fell back onto the deck and lay motionless. Berat looked again at the weapon for an instant. It was the first time he'd actually fired on anyone. But there was no time to waste. He bent down to Halek and stripped the data clip from the sub's belt, thinking, It was him or me. He keyed in the job number, and there it was: authorization for the maintenance and repair of the supply hold and emergency airlocks. The pressure check of the lock in supply hold C, he noted, was not checked off as completed.
He attached the clip to his own tool belt, picked up the kit, started gathering the scattered tools. There was blood on the pry bar. Berat ripped off a scrap of Halek's shirt to wipe it clean. He deliberately didn't check the unconscious man's pulse or respiration. He didn't want to know.
He glanced for an instant at the airlock. That was one way to get rid of Halek. He shook his head reluctantly. It wouldn't do to have the body of a dead Cardassian officer floating outside the ship, not when he wanted to avoid drawing attention to his escape.
The Swift Striker had two emergency docking ports forward, one port and one starboard. With his tool belt and kit, no one challenged Berat as he made his way through the ship's crowded corridors. When he got to the portside access and found a guard stationed there, he knew he'd found the right one.
One hand reached inside the tool belt to the concealed phaser.
But the sentry had already spotted him. "No access," he snarled, raising his own weapon. "Gul's orders. Nobody gets onto the station this way."
Berat held up the data clip. "I've got orders, too. Maintenance. Got to check the airlock pressure."
The guard frowned dubiously. Berat held out the data clip with the authorization for repair and maintenance of the supply and emergency locks.
"Hmm." The guard was still doubtful. "I dunno about this. Three sorry scrags tried to sneak through on the last shift. Wanted to get onto that Promenade. I hear the Gul's still got'm hanging."
Berat swallowed in sympathy, but he managed to say, "Well, Sub Halek will hang me if I don't get these jobs finished. I don't know what's going on, I've just got my orders. Look at this—I almost lost a finger on the last job, I'm supposed to be off shift already, and I've still got the starboard lock to check out after this one. I shouldn't even still have to be on duty, with this hand!"
The familiar sound of griping allayed the sentry's misgivings. "Well, I suppose. You got your orders, I guess." He stepped aside to let Berat at the airlock, watched as he set down the heavy tool kit, got out the pressure gauge.
Berat could feel the eyes on the back of his neck, the guard watching. What was he going to do now? "Flakk it!" he swore feelingly, imitating the language of the lower deck, "Not another leak! That's the second one today! Now I'll have to replace the seals! I'm gonna be on duty till next year with all these farking airlocks to work on!"
He continued to complain as he unpacked his kit, hoping the sentry wouldn't notice when he turned casually to the security access panel.
But the guard didn't back out of his way. "Say, don't I know you? Aren't you—"
As if he were reaching for a tool in his belt, Berat pulled out the phaser, turned and fired before the guard's suspicions could fully materialize. The man crumpled to the deck. Time was crucial now. Cursing his injured hand, Berat put the phaser back in his belt before he got the panel open and switched off the security alarm.
Then he hit the control pad, and the door rolled open. Inside the chamber, it seemed like a full minute before the pressure sensors flashed the stationside light and he could activate the other door. He was just about to hit the control to open it when he remembered—there was a security alarm on the station side, too!
Fighting panic, he told himself, Stop. Think. But any minute now, someone could come by and look down the access corridor. See him getting away. And the sentry—when was he going to wake up? In five minutes? Ten?
The sentry was the most immediate problem. He was alive and breathing strongly. Berat opened the shipside door and dragged the guard inside the lock with him, then, deliberately, took out the phaser and stunned him again, making sure he wasn't going to be able to interfere. Next, he wedged the pry bar into the track to block the door if anyone tried to open it.
Now, if he was lucky, he'd bought himself enough time. He peered through the stationside door into the corridor. There, only a meter away, was the security panel with the switch to shut off the emergency alarm. But it might as well have been on the other side of the docking ring for all the good it did him here, on this side of the lock.
No, he had to do it the hard way. Working quickly, ignoring the pain in his bleeding hand, Berat removed the door's control pad to get access to the circuitry. The alarm was set to go off whenever the door was activated. The two lines were linked: he could sever the circuit, but then the door wouldn't open. Even worse, cutting that circuit would set off a malfunction alarm that would instantly alert the station's maintenance crew.
He studied the complex branching network for a moment, to make sure of what he was doing. It wasn't such a difficult job, but only if you knew which circuit was which. For obvious security reasons, none of them were marked. Cutting the wrong one, even touching it with his probe, would set off the very alarm he was trying to silence.
His hands were sweaty. He wiped them on his greasy fatigues. Then he severed the circuits, to the maintenance alarm first and then the security line. The door control had to be reconnected, next, bypassing the other circuits, directly from the power node. Automatically, when he was finished, he replaced the access panel. Then he took a breath, hit the control pad. The stationside door rolled open with a faint hiss.
Berat looked out into the corridor. It was empty. In fact, it looked like it had been deserted. Most of the lights were off-line, panels were missing, and there were black stains on the walls and ceilings that looked like smoke. There'd been rumors that when the occupation troops pulled out of DS-Nine, they'd trashed the station, wreched it. Now it looked like the rumors had been true.
But no guards. Only the sensor mounted at the top of one wall, which would let station security track him wherever he went. But—he paused. With the condition the rest of the hall was in, these monitors might not even be functioning.
Berat hadn't given much thought, in his panic, to what he was going to do when he was on the other side of the airlock. Where he was going to go, how he was going to hide—a Cardassian on a station full of Bajorans! He couldn't go back to face Gul Marak's mercy, not now. But for the first time, he realized that he might have stepped into something even worse. He'd heard what the terrorists did to Cardassians. He might end up begging Gul Marak to hang him.
He glanced nervously back at the shipside door, at the sentry who might start stirring soon. No, he couldn't go back, no matter what, and he was almost out of time.
Grabbing his tool kit, he stepped out of the lock into the station corridor. The security sensor was his first priority. Quickly, he pulled out his diagnostic probe and discovered it was, in fact, nonfunctional. Relief almost made him dizzy. For once, luck was going his way!
Now if it would only last. One thing was clear. He couldn't stay in this section, not where the Swift Striker was docked. As soon as he was reported missing, as soon as the sentry woke up, the Gul would have guards out after him—
He ran.
When he reached the first branch corridor, Berat glanced back the way he'd come, listening for the sounds of pursuit, but he heard nothing. No guards, no one chasing him. Not Marak's deck patrol or station security.
He started to wonder. What if the deck patrol ran into station security? Into a Bajoran security force? That might be his best chance! And this corridor looked like it was in even worse repair than the other. Certainly ships hadn't been docking regularly at this pylon!
He could hide here. Not only was the place deserted, there were cargo bays, lifts, access shafts—just like there'd been on Farside Station. Where he knew every kilometer of them. All Cardassian space stations were built on the same general plans.
Cautiously, apprehension making his hands tingle, he probed the nearest security sensor. This one wasn't working, either. A circuit burned out. Just a basic repair job. And he had the tools with him, here on his belt.
He popped off the panel, started to probe. There it was. The whole junction node burned out. Well, he could fix that, too. A new unit, a few connections, and that was it. He could have done the job in half the time, if he hadn't constantly been stopping to listen to the sound of imaginary footsteps in pursuit. A quick check with the probe, and, yes, the monitor was working again!
Now when the Gul sent the deck patrol after him they might run into something!
Then Berat ducked into a deserted cargo bay and into the power-conduit shaft he knew would be there. He started to crawl, to find some place where he could hide. And rest.
Finally, to get some rest.