Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine® Volume Three Page 20

  “I know what you told me,” Laas snapped. “Now I want to know the truth.” He stalked past Odo, heading toward one of the other changelings.

  “I’ve told you the truth,” Odo insisted.

  “Have you?” Laas challenged him, spinning to face him. “Do you even know the truth?” Holding Odo’s gaze, he stepped backward to the center of the islet, into the space between the two amorphous changelings. “Tell me again then. Tell me why the Great Link sent out a hundred of their own—a hundred innocents—to endure loneliness, and suffering, and death.”

  “What are you talking about?” Odo asked. He looked at one of the unformed shapeshifters, and then at the other. Only then did he spy the small mound of ashes sitting between the two, the grainy, charcoal-gray substance difficult to see against the dark rock. Laas must have carried the material with him, depositing it on the islet when he’d landed. Odo had seen such a sight just once previously—nearly five years ago, aboard Defiant—but he knew it at once as the remains of a dead changeling.

  “Yes,” Laas said, apparently noting Odo’s recognition of the unmoving ashes. “That’s what I’m talking about.” His heated tones filled the islet. “So tell me again: why were we exiled from our people? For what good purpose did this happen?”

  And suddenly, staring at the desiccated reliquiae of a fellow changeling, Odo no longer had an answer.

  Taran’atar opened his eyes in darkness. His body tensed immediately, his instincts readying him to spring into action. He reached for the kar’takin sheathed on his back, pleased to find the ax still in its place as his hand wrapped around its perfectly balanced, perfectly proportioned haft. He focused his concentration, preparing to shroud, to bring down around him, through force of will, a cloak of invisibility.

  But first, seeking to take the measure of his situation, Taran’atar examined the input of his senses. His gray, pebbled flesh registered the tight circulation of air, as though within an enclosed space, and the slight flexing of his muscles revealed no restraints about him. His empty hand confirmed the cushioned seat beneath him, and though he detected no one in the room with him now, the scents that reached his nose told him that others had been here recently. Underscoring it all, a muted vibration suffused his environs, accompanied by a low, steady rumble.

  Warp engines, Taran’atar thought. He gauged the pitch, loudness, and timbre of the sound, and distinguished the drive as that of a Federation runabout. In an instant, he recalled his location—aboard Rio Grande—and his circumstances: crewing a nonmilitary mission with Captain Kira, Lieutenant Bowers, and Ensign Aleco.

  Taran’atar bolted up out of his chair in the lightless compartment, drawing his blade in the same motion. Rage coursed through his body like ketracel-white, feeding him, driving him. “Victory is life,” he hissed through clenched teeth, attempting to control his anger and deal with the failure he’d just borne. For him to be unaware of his surroundings, even for a moment, represented an unacceptable defect in his abilities.

  “Computer,” he said, working to keep his voice even, “lights.” Two short tones acknowledged his command, and the darkness receded beneath the rising glow of the overhead panels. Taran’atar peered around the runabout’s aft compartment. As his gaze took in the design and engineering style characteristic of Starfleet vessels, he felt his fury anew.

  He had come to abhor this place. Not just the runabout, or the space station, or Bajor, but the whole of the Alpha Quadrant. And he had come to abhor the beings who populated it. He held a degree of respect for some of those he’d encountered—such as Kira and Vaughn—and managed a tolerance for others—Ro, Bashir—but that did not mitigate his general contempt for the species and individuals here. He stayed for one reason only, for the same reason he’d come here to begin with: because the Founder had issued him those orders. But months after leaving the Gamma Quadrant for this undertaking, he still did not really understand the purpose he’d been assigned. Given that, and despite the words of encouragement Odo had offered during his visit to Deep Space 9 two months ago, Taran’atar believed that success had completely eluded him here, and always would. Worse, he realized that his time on this mission was not simply futile, but also detrimental to his effectiveness as a soldier of the Dominion.

  Taran’atar glanced down at his hand, at the ax clutched before him in a posture of attack. How often had he wielded such a blade against a foe? He remembered vividly sending his kar’takin slicing through the face of the Hirogen he’d fought in the Delta Quadrant, and before that, burying it in the chest of one of Locken’s misbegotten Jem’Hadar on Sindorin. Flashes of memory from back in the Dominion played through his mind: his steel tasting the blood of the Ourentia as his phalanx put down their reckless uprising; a well-thrown knife delivering relief from a power-mad Vorta whose unchecked ambitions threatened the life of a Founder; under orders from his first, cutting through the rugged hide of the ninth and removing his still-warm hearts, an example to the other Jem’Hadar of the consequences of disobeying an order during combat. Taran’atar’s blades had carved through the flesh of scores of different species, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands. For his twenty-two years, he had served the Founders, had defended their empire in uncounted campaigns. But now he felt useless to his gods.

  In his hand, the thin blade of the kar’takin reflected the overhead lighting. Taran’atar looked at it, the urge to use it to fight his way back to Dominion space a strong one. Instead, he struggled to suppress his wrath. He returned the ax to its scabbard. No weapon, no matter its utility or lethality, would aid him in vanquishing his newfound enemy: sleep.

  “Computer,” he said in a low growl, “time.” An automated voice responded, and Taran’atar calculated that he had slept approximately one hour, forty-seven minutes. His hands squeezed into fists.

  Taran’atar’s need for slumber—several hours, a couple of times per week—had developed not long ago, just prior to Bajor’s official admission into the Federation. Deeply concerned about his new vulnerability, he’d gone to Odo for assistance. The Founder had instructed him to allow a medical examination by Dr. Bashir, who’d determined his sleeping to be a consequence of no longer ingesting ketracel-white. The amalgam in the white’s carrier solution of enzyme and nutrients, coupled with the delivery method, somehow forestalled the necessity for a Jem’Hadar to rest. Unable to reproduce the effect by other means, Bashir had offered no solutions. Taran’atar had then appealed to Odo to sanction his return to the Dominion, but the Founder had denied the request, and had even suggested that being more like the people he’d been sent to live among might provide him a fresh perspective from which to learn about them.

  Taran’atar had acquiesced—he had no choice but to do as one of his gods commanded—but in the weeks since, his dissatisfaction with his own capacity to function well as a Jem’Hadar soldier had grown. He had obeyed the will of the Founders his entire life, and he always would, but how could he serve them on Deep Space 9, by living among Bajorans and humans, Andorians and Trill and Ferengi? And of what use could he be to them, how effective could he be, if he continued to require sleep?

  No use, he thought now. It had been that realization that had set him on his present course of action.

  To his left, the door to the aft compartment slid open, followed by the sound of somebody stepping inside. Taran’atar turned to see Captain Kira standing there, the central corridor of the runabout visible behind her. She looked different to him now than when he’d first come aboard the space station. Back then, she’d worn the ocherous uniform of the Bajoran Militia; now, she clad herself in the black-and-gray of Starfleet. Like him, he thought, she’d been forced from her world and into the insidious influences of the Federation.

  “Taran’atar,” she said, “I just wanted to let you know that we’re only an hour out from the Mjolnir.”

  He looked at her face, and though she’d conducted herself competently during the time he’d spent in the Alpha Quadrant, his ire built within him once mo
re. Quickly reining it in, he said, “Acknowledged.”

  “Would you like to join us up front?” she asked, hiking her thumb back over her shoulder.

  “No. I prefer to be alone at the moment,” he told her. “Unless you are ordering me…” Odo had instructed him to follow Kira’s commands.

  “No, not at all,” Kira said. “I just thought…well, never mind.” She took one step out of the room, then peered back at him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Taran’atar said. Then, not wanting his terseness to invite additional questions, he added, “I’m fine, thank you, Captain.” Kira nodded and offered a half-smile, clearly not convinced, but she headed back toward the front of the ship. The door eased closed behind her.

  It will not be long, Taran’atar thought, looking at the spot where Kira had been. One hour until the rendezvous with Mjolnir, where Bowers and Aleco would disembark Rio Grande. With Kira, he’d travel the next leg of his journey, and then…and then maybe he could finally bring his time away from the Dominion to an end.

  Odo stared at the ashes of the fallen changeling. Anguish washed over him like a cold and bitter wind. He stood motionless, arms at his sides, feeling as though he’d been assaulted.

  Perhaps this explained the combination of rising anticipation and upset in the Great Link, he thought. The Founders had espied Laas and the other two changelings descending through the sky, but also must have perceived the inert mass of the fourth. From his own experience, Odo understood the devastating impact that the loss of one of his people had on the rest. Difficult as the death of a cherished family member or loved one might be for a humanoid, the demise of a Founder meant that and more; the Link lost not only an individual, but a literal piece of the whole as well. Odo had suffered the grief of personally witnessing the deaths of two changelings, and after the first of these, he’d also experienced the terrible sorrow that subsequently had come to pervade the Great Link.

  Laas paced back across the islet, his soft footfalls a lonely sound in the still setting. Around them, the silently rolling changeling sea mirrored the coppery gloaming. “Why?” Laas asked again as he came abreast of Odo, his voice much quieter now. “Why did our people send out the Hundred?”

  Odo searched for an answer different from the one he had been told, different from the one he had some time ago recited for Laas, but he could not find one. “You know why,” he repeated. His gaze still rested on the gritty, leaden remnants of the lifeless changeling.

  “No,” Laas insisted, though gently. “I really don’t know. Please tell me.”

  At last, Odo looked up. He sighed, a quick burst of air from his mouth, a habit he’d developed long ago, during his years on Bajor with Dr. Mora. “Our people sent out a hundred of us to learn about the galaxy,” he explained, “and then to return that knowledge to them.”

  “But why send newly formed changelings?” Laas asked. His inflection implied a genuine lack of comprehension.

  “Because the Great Link felt the need to hide,” Odo said. He looked around, past the margins of the islet, and out across the expanse of their people. “They used to travel the stars, discovering all they could about the universe, meeting other species, but…”

  “But,” Laas echoed, his tone clearly expressing not a question, but a prompt.

  “But they were feared by solids,” Odo continued, recollecting the tale he’d been told when, after being drawn to the Omarion Nebula, he’d established contact with the Founders. The changeling leader—she did not actually lead the Great Link, but had taken the mantle, first, of communicating with Odo in his humanoid form, and later, of directing the Dominion’s war machine against the residents of the Alpha Quadrant—the changeling leader had welcomed Odo back, and had shared the reasons for the seclusion of their people, as well as the reasons for the Hundred. “Some solids were suspicious of their ability to shapeshift, and changelings were hunted and sometimes killed. For reasons of self-preservation, the Great Link isolated itself from others.”

  “But they still wanted to expand their knowledge of the galaxy,” Laas offered. “And to gather intelligence about the dangers that awaited the Link.”

  “Yes,” Odo agreed. “So they sent us out, with a genetically imprinted drive to return.”

  Laas did not respond immediately, and after more than a few seconds, Odo turned from peering out across the Link and back toward his compatriot. Laas raised his hands and gripped Odo firmly about the upper arms. Slowly, he said, “That does not make sense.”

  “What doesn’t make sense?” Odo asked.

  “Sending newly formed changelings—infants—on charges of exploration and intelligence,” Laas said. “Why attempt to gather information in such an unstructured, uncertain manner? How could they abandon a hundred waifs in unfamiliar space, with no tools or instructions, with no life experience whatsoever, and expect them to execute a successful mission?”

  Odo listened to Laas’s questions, and found himself unable to provide reasonable responses. He peered over at the pair of other, living changelings, and saw them spilling across the islet toward the Link. He wondered where Laas had located the two, whom he inferred belonged to the Hundred. As Odo considered what Laas had said, he had to admit that the justification he’d been given for seeding him and the others throughout the galaxy did not seem to bear up under scrutiny.

  “And if the Founders were so concerned about the constant threat posed by monoforms,” Laas went on, employing the term he used to describe non-changelings, “then how could they deliver infants from the Link into their midst, with no guidance and no protection?”

  Odo looked back at Laas. “Solids are not inherently a danger to changelings,” he argued.

  “No?” Laas said, his voice rising again in obvious agitation. He raised an arm and pointed toward the pile of flinty remains. On either side of the ashes, Odo saw, the other two changelings had slipped from the islet and rejoined the Great Link. “This Founder,” Laas said, stalking back toward it, “died by the hand of a humanoid, killed for no other reason than the ability to alter form at will.” He locked eyes with Odo from the center of the islet, the brace of jagged peaks behind him a dramatic backdrop. “Have you so quickly forgotten the Federation’s attempted genocide of our people?”

  “That was an action undertaken by a small subset of the Federation, a few individuals,” Odo protested. “And even that came only after the Founders had already launched the war.”

  “Odo,” Laas said, shaking his head from side to side, “you have no sense of objectivity in these matters. Your love for a monoform blinds you to their bigotry.”

  Odo felt the return of an old inclination: to deny his feelings for Nerys, as he had done for so long. But denial, he knew, would convince Laas of nothing but Odo’s unwillingness to be honest. Ever since his return to the Great Link after the end of the war, Odo had determined not only to be honest in communicating with his people, but to be open as well. He knew that his efforts to convince the Founders to join in peaceful relationships with others beyond their world would require them to trust in both him and his motives.

  “I love Kira,” he told Laas. “But my emotions for her do not alter facts…facts like my overriding feelings for the Link, which are evidenced by my continued presence in it.”

  “Your ‘continued presence’?” Laas questioned. “According to Vannis, you’ve recently come back after being away for more than three months, much of it spent in the Alpha Quadrant.” Before arriving on the planet, Laas must have had contact with the ship Vannis commanded. “So much for your commitment to our people.”

  “I left to track a potential threat to the Great Link,” Odo claimed truthfully, thinking of the rumors of an Ascendant. He knew that he would also have to detail investigating the rumors that eventually led him to Opaka Sulan, as well as to admit his time with Nerys. Laas had clearly learned of his travels, and so revealing anything less would doubtless be perceived as subterfuge, undermining his words. But before Odo could s
ay more, Laas spoke again.

  “Did you find any Ascendants on Deep Space 9 or on Bajor?” he said. He took a step forward, in Odo’s direction. “Or perhaps in Kira’s bed?”

  Odo shook his head as he folded his arms across his chest. “Is that intended to provoke me?” he asked. Odo had contended with enough criminals—Quark came to mind—to know when somebody baited him. “The Founders know the reasons for my time away from here, including my time in the Alpha Quadrant,” he said calmly. “They also know that I’m here now, that I didn’t remain with Kira.” But just mentioning the prospect of staying with Nerys, just the notion of making a life with her, sent a thrill through him.

  “Your presence here is for the purpose of swaying the Great Link to your views of monoforms,” Laas said. “Do not deny it. Your goal is not to help the Founders, but to change their way of thinking. Once you’ve done that…or maybe even if you don’t…ultimately, you will return to her.”

  Laas took another step forward, and suddenly, his body quivered. Golden ripples emanated from the center of his torso outward, like the influence of a stone dropped into sun-drenched waters. Odo watched as the ripples of light spread, quickly encompassing Laas’s entire form. His body shortened and contracted, but retained a basic humanoid shape.

  Odo waited until the effulgence retreated, congealing into definite colors and textures. When the effect finished, Laas no longer mimicked the shape and characteristics of a Varalan. His form had metamorphosed into something else, Odo saw. Into some body else.

  It was Nerys.

  The face of the Dominion spread across the floor of the transporter platform. Vannis stood on the Jem’Hadar bridge, just outside the alcove, peering in at the shapeless, gelatinous form of the Founder. Its face was no face at all, a glistening orange-gold surface devoid of features. Vannis recognized it as a changeling, but not as any particular changeling. This could have been the same shapeshifter who last month had issued her orders about the revolt on Rintanna, or it could have been one whom she had never before met.