Tales of the Dominion War Page 4

  How can this be? he wondered in fear and confusion. I carefully checked my supply right before we left for Earth—and the chest is genetically encoded so that only I may open it!

  “Gone?” the First repeated ominously. He bent down until his horned face was only centimeters away from the Vorta’s. The other Jem’Hadar closed in around Methras, trapping him at the center of a knot of discontented warriors. “All of it?”

  “Every drop,” Methras whispered, flinching in anticipation of the soldiers’ reaction. He had no illusions regarding the Jem’Hadar’s distaste for Vortas in general; only his control of the white, and the authority of the now-carbonized Founder, had guaranteed the warriors’ obedience. Without the white, Methras was like a tribble tossed into a cage of ravening saurovores. “It’s not my fault!” he pleaded shrilly. “It isn’t possible….”

  But the Jem’Hadar weren’t even listening anymore. The butt of Virak’iklan’s rifle slammed into Methras’s face, shattering his jaw and dislodging several teeth. The rest of the soldiers joined in, knocking him to the floor. Heavy blows rained down on Methras like a meteor storm, while a blood-red glow filled the Vorta’s fading vision. He groped frantically beneath his fractured jaw, struggling to activate his termination implant and spare himself a far more painful death. Yet, to his horror, the subdermal mechanism refused to work. He could not even kill himself.

  It isn’t fair! his mind protested to the universe. How is this happening?

  Again and again, the merciless rifles pounded him. In his final moments, he wondered if the Founders would even bother to clone a new Methras, given the complete and utter failure of his mission….

  Perfect, (*) gloated. With the Vorta dead, and the Solanco accelerating heedlessly toward the cosmic rift, there was no chance of the crucial command codes ever making it to their destination. And by denying the Dominion an easy victory, (*) had successfully prolonged this sumptuous and savory war. Exactly as I desired.

  But though it had already accomplished its primary objective, (*) could not resisting lingering aboard the doomed vessel while there were still living creatures to torture and violent emotions to foment….

  The ring of steel against steel echoed through the cramped confines of the freighter. Brownish-yellow bloodstains streaked the uncaring walls and consoles as the Jem’Hadar warriors clashed violently upon the bridge. The venerable commander of the unit perished by the edge of his former Second’s kar’takin, then rose up once more, his fatal wound miraculously healed, to avenge his own demise. Spittle sprayed from his mouth of First Virak’iklan as he hacked mercilessly at the other warrior, aiming for the life-giving tube that flowed into his jugular vein. He struck a glancing blow at his target, nicking the reinforced plastic tubing, and drops of precious white leaked from the perforated conduit. The scent of the white, lost and wasted, inflamed his righteous anger further, spurring him to still more frenzied attacks, while all around him a half dozen Jem’Hadar soldiers slashed and stabbed at their brothers-in-arms.

  Caught up in the heat of battle, the dueling warriors remained oblivious to the flickering sphere of crimson energy spinning fiercely above their heads, and to the fact that their rifles had inexplicably disappeared, leaving them only to fight each other endlessly with their kar’takins.

  (*) devoured the unleashed fury of the Jem’Hadar. Turning the unit against itself had been child’s play; it had merely implanted the idea in each soldier’s mind that the others were hoarding a hidden supply of white and withholding it from him. Their genetically programmed addiction made them peculiarly susceptible to manipulation, much to (*)’s delight.

  Alas, (*) knew it would soon have to depart the doomed freighter, before the vessel disappeared forever into the approaching rift. The voracious space-time rupture waited to consume energy and matter alike, and not even (*) was immune to the danger it posed. (*) briefly considered resurrecting the Cardassian captain in time to save the ship, but, no, it was better that the Solanco, along with the stolen command codes, vanished from the cosmos altogether. I must abandon this vessel shortly, (*) resolved.

  But not quite yet.

  The ongoing carnage was just too succulent.

  This was the very peak of its feeding cycle. The more the organic specimens hated, the stronger (*) grew, and the stronger it became, the better it could fan the flames of the conflict, toying with the minds and matter below it to yield ever greater levels of homicidal mania for it to dine upon. Hovering beneath the gore-splattered ceiling, it flexed its power to make another minor adjustment to the scenario it had created.

  Virak’iklan had his traitorous Second right where he wanted him, backed into a corner and down on one knee. More white dripped from the Second’s punctured supply tube; like all the soldiers aboard the vessel, the Second had just enough white to stay alive, but not enough to curb the madness of withdrawal. (*) had seen to that, discreetly adding and subtracting to each soldier’s rations as needed. The First raised his kar’takin to deliver the killing blow, but on its downward swing the sharpened blade inexplicably transformed into a blunt truncheon. The metal club slammed into the Second’s skull, knocking him to the blood-stained floor but not yet killing him. Virak’iklan had to strike the officer again and again before he finally collapsed lifelessly onto the floor. The First clubbed him one more time to be sure, then took advantage of his momentary victory to glance around the bridge.

  For a second or two, Virak’iklan was puzzled to see that, as with himself, every soldier’s kar’takin had been replaced instantaneously with an identical truncheon. How? he pondered, dimly remembering that he had wondered much the same when the Cardassian had mysteriously received his weapon, and when his own rifle had mysteriously disappeared.

  Something is terribly wrong, he realized for a moment, but then the grappling bodies of two of his soldiers, locked together in a furious struggle, smashed into his side, dashing such concerns from his mind and tossing him back into the savage fray. It was all these two’s fault, he realized instantly, not pausing to question where this sudden certainty had come from. It was they who, along with the dead and vanquished Second, had stolen the last of the white, sparking this riot. But he’d teach them to let their greedy craving get the best of them. He’d beat some discipline back into his troops, even if he had to kill them all to do it. He swung his club and felt it connect satisfyingly against flesh and bone.

  Ignored and discarded on the floor behind him, the body of the murdered Second began to twitch spasmodically as shattered bones reknit themselves and mortal injuries healed with impossible speed. A fresh layer of overlapping, chitinous, gray scales spread over a skull that no longer looked nearly as pulped as it had a few heartbeats before. Limp fingers jerked to life, then tightened around the shaft of his abandoned club as he lurched onto his feet, pursuing his First into the chaotic free-for-all that had erupted on the bridge. Already he had forgotten his own short-lived death, forgotten everything except his own unquenchable need for revenge.

  Yes…(*) basked in the intoxicating enmity suffusing the scene. Blunt weapons instead of edged ones prolonged the struggle and increased the brutality. This was more than mere sustenance now; it was an exquisite delicacy.

  A graphic on the viewscreen charted the Solanco’s steady progress toward the fateful event horizon of the rift. (*) registered that the freighter was now less than a single light-year away from oblivion. Soon, (*) reminded himself. I must escape soon.

  But not this very minute. (*) had never encountered a species like these Jem’Hadar. Their single-minded focus on combat made them the perfect prey. The intensity of the warring Jem’Hadar, genetically engineered for maximum ferocity, was almost more than (*) could resist. Just a little bit longer, it promised itself….

  On the bridge, First Virak’iklan died once more as both his Second and his Third battered him so hard the blows left dents in their shining metal clubs. No sooner had they finished killing him than the two soldiers turned on each other, trampling over their victim’s body in their frenzy. This is wrong, Virak’iklan thought as his brain came back to life seconds later. This is not the Founders’ will.

  (*) spun silently above the crazed Jem’Hadar, lapping up the hate that spilled like blood from the maddened soldiers, caught up in a rapture such as it had never known.

  Too late (*) realized that it had lingered too long at the feast. The Solanco crossed the event horizon into the Hunyadi Rift, and immense cosmic forces seized hold of the fragile freighter. Lighted display panels blinked out, and the viewscreen went blank, as the rift sucked every last volt of electrical energy from the ship’s systems. The battle-scarred bridge was cast into near-darkness, lit only by the incarnadine glow of (*) itself. The floor beneath the Jem’Hadar lurched violently as the ship was buffeted by the chaotic turbulence of the rift. Life-support and artificial gravity shorted out, and the helpless bodies of the Jem’Hadar were tossed about the bridge like chaff in the wind. They gasped hoarsely, feeling the lifeforce drain from their bodies as surely the rift consumed the hate-spawned vitality (*) had leeched from its unwary victims. The flickering red sphere tried to escape, to leave the collapsing starship behind, but the pull of the vortex was too great. For the first time in uncounted millennia, (*) found itself in the presence of a hunger even more demanding than its own.

  But that was not the only irony. As the walls of the freighter buckled inward, and (*) descended inexorably into the abyss, a singularly bitter truth struck at the core of its being:

  Without intending to, (*) might have just saved both the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets.

  And it had nothing to blame but its own insatiable appetite.

  Wait! (*) wailed in despair. Give me another chance! This cannot be the end…!

  The banquet was over forever. An eternity of hunger began.

  The Ceremony of Innocence

  Is Drowned

  Keith R.A. DeCandido

  War correspondence: This story chronicles events referred to in the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode “In the Pale Moonlight.”

  Keith R.A. DeCandido

  Keith R.A. DeCandido’s contributions to the Star Trek universe since 1999 have been numerous, including the novels Diplomatic Implausibility, Demons of Air and Darkness, and The Art of the Impossible; the two-book series The Brave and the Bold; the comic book miniseries Perchance to Dream; over half a dozen eBooks in the Star Trek: S.C.E. series, which he codeveloped; and short fiction in What Lay Beyond, Prophecy and Change, and No Limits. He is also the author of the Star Trek: I.K.S. Gorkon series, novels starring the franchise’s most popular aliens, the Klingons. Forthcoming works include the novels A Time for War, a Time for Peace and Articles of the Federation, the Ferenginar portion of the Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine miniseries, further I.K.S. Gorkon adventures, and a great deal more. Keith, whose original novel Dragon Precinct was published in 2004, has also written in the universes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Doctor Who, Farscape, Gene Roddenberry’s Andromeda, Marvel Comics, Resident Evil, Xena, and more. His other anthologies include Imaginings: An Anthology of Long Short Fiction, The Ultimate Dragon, The Ultimate Alien, OtherWere: Stories of Transformation, Urban Nightmares, and an upcoming Star Trek anthology called Tales from the Captain’s Table. He has long since abandoned such outmoded notions as “sleep.” Learn more exaggerations about Keith at DeCandido.net.

  Lwaxana sent Mr. Homn to the door to let Nathan Gold and Elaine Welsh in nine seconds before they arrived at the door.

  Her eyes did not see Mr. Homn open the door for the two humans as they walked up the three stairs that led to it, but thanks to her telepathy, she perceived the actions just the same. Nathan was thinking about the questions he’d be asking Lwaxana; Elaine was studying the old house’s architecture and coming up with some questions of her own; Mr. Homn, bless him, was going over the inventory of the pantry, and hoping that the two new arrivals wouldn’t ask for anything that he didn’t have in stock. They had a replicator, of course, but Lwaxana hated the damn thing, and much preferred original foodstuffs. Sometimes, however, the needs of guests went beyond what was stocked in the larder, and so Lwaxana had to swallow her irritation—which always went down badly—and let Mr. Homn use the wretched device. Such were the burdens of a Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed.

  As soon as Mr. Homn led the couple into the cavernous living room, Lwaxana stood up from the genuine amra-skin couch to stand on the Eridat rug that had been in her family for generations, and extended her arms. “Elaine, Nathan—welcome to my humble abode! It’s so good to see you both again!”

  Nathan grinned. “This you call humble? I’d hate to see lavish.”

  “Thank you, Lwaxana,” Elaine said, putting her hands together. “It’s a singular privilege to be allowed into your home.”

  “Of course it is, dear. Oh, and to answer your question, yes, this house was built as a combination of the early Dantric style and later Torinese.” She frowned. “I’m not sure why, really, but I always liked it. We’ve—well, I’ve lived here for—” she blinked “—goodness, almost forty years now. Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it?”

  “That explains why I keep losing my hair,” Nathan said.

  This prompted Lwaxana to actually look at her guests for the first time. So often she neglected to pay attention to people’s physical appearances, aside from her own, of course. But she knew that nontelepaths placed such a huge emphasis on it that it behooved her to acknowledge them—which was part of why she paid such close attention to her own appearance.

  Nathan was a short, balding man, though he hadn’t reached the elegant baldness of, say, Jean-Luc Picard or Timicin. No, he was still achieving baldness, a work in progress. The hair he had was black, flecked with gray, his nose was a bit oversized, his cheeks a bit too puffy, and he had awful posture. Worse, he insisted on wearing a beige cardigan sweater, even though it was a fairly warm day, that washed out his already pale skin. Despite the fact that, in many ways, he looked like he’d been put together by three different people going for three different appearances, it all seemed to fit together.

  Much like the house’s architecture, in fact.

  Elaine’s next words matched Lwaxana’s thoughts: “I’ve never seen those designs combined before—and I’ve been living here for three years now.”

  “As far as I know, this house is unique. That’s what led me to it, to be honest.”

  “I can see the appeal.” Elaine smiled, revealing a wide mouth of white teeth. The smile seemed a bit big for the rest of her face, truth be told. She wore her sand-colored hair tied back in a large ponytail, but even with that, her hair seemed to dwarf her small, round face. However, as with the seeming imperfections in her husband’s form, on her it worked.

  This was the third time she had met with Nathan and Elaine, and once again Lwaxana found herself mildly envious of them. They were so wonderfully comfortable with their appearances. And with each other.

  Lwaxana indicated the amra-skin couch; she herself took the plush conformer chair. “Both of you please, sit down. Can Mr. Homn get either of you something to eat or drink?”

  “Just an allira punch for me,” Nathan said, as he took a seat on the couch, sitting with his legs straight ahead of him, his arms resting on his lap, his posture still awful.

  “Nonsense,” Lwaxana said, “you also want a Reuben.”

  Nathan chuckled. “Well, yeah, I want one. Been wanting a Reuben for three years, but I’ve seen what you people call corned beef on this world. The cheese is great. Love the cheese. Could die a happy man eating cheese here, but the corned beef? Forget about it. I wouldn’t give my dog the corned beef here.”

  Lwaxana laughed. “You don’t even like dogs, Nathan.”

  “My point.”

  “Well, as it happens, you are lucky enough to be in a house that was once home to a human who adored Reubens.”

  Nathan blinked. “Really?”

  “No, not really, but he did love to have corned beef on rye bread. The upshot, my dear Nathan, is that our replicator is programmed to provide Earth corned beef, so you can have a Reuben.”

  He threw up his hands. “Fine, you sold me. One Reuben.”

  Elaine had taken up a more relaxed posture on the couch, tucking her long legs under her and leaning on the back of the couch with her right arm. She fixed Lwaxana with a look. “As I recall, last time, at the restaurant, you said that your Mr. Homn made a much better blue-leaf salad than the atrocity the restaurant fed us.”

  Lwaxana turned to her valet. “Mr. Homn, in addition to the Reuben and allira punch for Mr. Gold and some oscoids and a Samarian sunset for me, please prepare a blue-leaf salad and a glass of sparkling water with a jakarine twist for Ms. Welsh.”

  “Wish I could do that,” Nathan said with a smile. “Just pull things out of people’s heads. It’d certainly simplify the interview process.”

  Elaine added in a mock-conspiratorial tone, “And it’d be nice if he knew what I wanted without my having to repeat it eight times.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nathan said archly. “You usually only have to repeat it five or six times.”

  “Actually,” Lwaxana said, “it averages out to nine times, but who’s counting?”

  Nathan shot his wife a look. “Everyone, apparently.”

  Lwaxana knew that Nathan’s irritation with his wife was feigned. That made Lwaxana both happy and sad, but she managed to rein in her emotional state. Ever since little Barin was born, she had made an effort to keep her emotions from affecting those around her. It was tough at her age—she was a sufficiently powerful telepath that, as she grew older, it became harder to keep her own emotional state from bleeding out to others, as it were—but Lwaxana was up to the challenge. She was up to any challenge.