The Dominion War_ Behind Enemy Lines Part 4

Sam looked at his friend, wondering if he had detected a trace of bitterness in the Vulcan's tone. He couldn't blame Taurik if he was bitter, because Enrak Grof was close to solving one of science's most elusive puzzles, unraveling the mysteries of wormholes and actually re-creating a tunnel through s.p.a.ce and time. In exchange for this privilege, Grof was collaborating with the enemy. His name was all over schematics and memos, and he seemed to rank in importance with the Vorta engineers. He was particularly useful in telling the Dominion what kind of work best suited their prisoners.

Come to think of it, maybe Grof did deserve to be gutted with a dull Klingon knife.

Taurik shook his head. "It is highly unlikely that any of us will get an opportunity to harm Professor Grof. To my knowledge, few prisoners have seen him since his capture on Deep s.p.a.ce Nine."

"How was he captured?" asked the youngest woman. Swapping capture stories was a favorite pastime among the prisoners.

"He refused to abandon his experiments on the Bajoran wormhole," answered Taurik, "and was captured when the Dominion took over. This would indicate that his work is more important to him than anything else."

"Even his honor," hissed the Klingon woman. "He may not have a worm inside of him, but he is a worm."

"They pulled me out of an escape pod," said the youngest woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes. Her freckles went all the way down her back.

A clank and a slight shudder informed Sam that they had docked at the pod complex. Although he had never seen it from the outside, he imagined that it looked like a giant model of a complex molecule, with long, narrow shafts connecting large, windowless spheres in which both they and their jailers lived. The place felt decentralized, with easily defended modules instead of a central hub. At any rate, it was unheard of for anyone to escape from the pod complex. Where would they go, surrounded by freezing s.p.a.ce?

Sam often thought about stealing a s.h.i.+p, but their captors never left the shuttlecraft docked for more than a few seconds. Both the Jem'Hadar and Carda.s.sians were skilled and experienced jailers, and they considered every possibility.

"Lucky devils," muttered one of the men. "The ones who died, I mean."

No one disputed the man's morbid a.s.sessment. Some days, it did seem as if death was a preferable option to numbing, soulless labor that would only benefit the enemy. The war and imprisonment had made death a constant fixture of their lives, like the darkness of s.p.a.ce.

Armed Jem'Hadar gathered around the cell, and one of them turned off the forcefield. Waving their weapons, they ushered the prisoners out of the cell and into the gangway. Most of the prisoners made a point of not looking at the dying man in the adjoining cell, but Sam pointed at him.

"Can't you do something to help him?" demanded Sam.

"He is damaged," replied a Jem'Hadar. "Move along."

Sam thought about arguing, but the Jem'Hadar treated their own with the same disregard. The strong survived, and the weak were best weeded out. Besides, to die in the service of the Founders was the greatest reward of all for a Jem'Hadar, and why should prisoners be any different? Did they grieve the loss of their comrades in the accident? No. Their only reaction was to increase security and cut short the work s.h.i.+ft.

He followed the others down the gangway, through the hatch, and into the freight pod. Situated near the outer bulkhead, the hold was freezing, and the prisoners hurried to grab frayed white jumpsuits from a rack of used clothing. They gratefully covered their s.h.i.+vering bodies.

The woman who had accused Sam of being a collaborator gave him an embarra.s.sed glance. He nodded, knowing the glance was as close as he would ever come to receiving an apology. In this place, distrust was easier to come by than hope. The guards motioned the females into the turbolift marked with vertical red stripes, and the men shuffled silently toward the turbolift with the horizontal blue stripes. There was a good chance they would never see each other again.

Sam had once demanded that the women and the men be housed together, but a Jem'Hadar had informed him that pregnant women would have to be killed. That was as far as the request went.

Taurik, Sam, and the other man entered the lift and waited for the door to close. The Jem'Hadar guards were smart-they never rode the turbolifts with the prisoners, preferring to avoid tight places where their charges could jump them and take their weapons. Come to think of it, Sam had never known the Jem'Hadar to be careless or make mistakes. They would fight to the death if ordered to do so, but it would be a controlled, measured suicide.

As the men rode in the cramped turbolift, Sam wondered for the hundredth time if there was any escape from the seamless chamber. A prisoner named Neko had once told him that he could escape from the turbolift, but Sam had never seen Neko again after that boast.

The door opened, and a gruff voice said, "Prisoner three-six-one-nine, this is Pod Fifteen. Exit now." The man who envied the dead shuffled off the lift and vanished down a narrow corridor.

When the door shut, Sam and Taurik continued their diagonal journey. The long turbolift rides were the main reason why Sam envisioned the complex as being individual pods separated by long shafts. Not that it made much difference, but it was something to think about when a person was trying to avoid thinking.

"It has been a difficult day," said Taurik in the Vulcan equivalent of small talk.

"Yes, it has been," agreed Sam. "And the most difficult days are ahead of us."

Somehow, before their work was done, they would have to revolt and try to destroy the artificial wormhole. Certainly it would be the day they all died in utter futility, but the effort had to be made-or they couldn't live with themselves. But each day, if they could be called days, slithered by with lethargy and hopelessness as the prisoners' constant companions.

The door slid open, and a gruff voice said, "Prisoners zero-five-nine-six and zero-five-nine-seven, this is Pod Eighteen. Exit now."

Sam and Taurik filed off the turbolift into the dimly lit corridor which led to their barracks. After a walk through a featureless hallway, they came upon a narrow metal hatch, which snapped open at their approach. Sam entered a high-ceiling room which always reminded him of the gymnasium in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his church in Brooklyn. It had the same sort of Spartan, no-nonsense utility.

Five hundred bedrolls lay on the floor, and most of them were occupied with bored male prisoners representing a score of Federation species, from blue-skinned Andorians to beaked Saurians. They sat staring at the observation lenses along the ceiling, from where, it was a.s.sumed, the guards stared down at them.

Half a dozen prisoners rushed Sam and Taurik as they entered. "Did you see it? We heard there was an accident! What exactly happened out there?" they demanded in a babble of voices.

Sam motioned them to be calm, then he told them what he had witnessed, not mentioining how many prisoners had been caught in the explosion.

"Were there many casualties?" asked a young ensign.

Sam shrugged. "Only a few of ours, but they lost a tanker full of Carda.s.sians and a bunch of Jem'Hadar guards."

"All right!" crowed a prisoner, thrusting his fist into the air. An excited discussion ensued.

Taurik shot Sam a look that said that he recognized the lie but wouldn't correct it. Like all of them, the Vulcan had learned to deal differently with the world since becoming a slave laborer. Taurik was willing to overlook the truth if it gave some comfort to his dispirited comrades.

A twinge of pain reminded Sam that he had crashed hard into the metal supports, and he rubbed his shoulder. "What time is it?" he muttered. "Time for chow?"

"More than an hour to go, we think," answered a prisoner. They were driven by chronometers while outside working, but timepieces were not allowed inside the prison pods. There was no day or night to measure the pa.s.sage of time, and the jailers never changed the lighting. Still the prisoners kept a running estimate, as best they could, based on changes of s.h.i.+fts and meal delivery.

A klaxon blared, causing Sam to jump nervously. He stared up at the observation lenses in the ceiling, as did hundreds of his fellow prisoners. The excited conversation dissolved into an apprehensive whisper.

"Prisoner zero-five-nine-six, prepare to exit," said a voice.

Sam licked his lips nervously and stepped toward the door. With a jovial smile, he told the others, "I'll see you later at chow." They stared at him with a disconcerting mixture of fear, distrust, and envy.

The door flew open, and Sam stepped into the dimly lit corridor. When the door slid shut behind him, leaving him alone, he felt ostracized from his fellow prisoners. It was getting harder and harder to cap his temper and remain cordial to everyone-when all of them expected so much of him. More than anything, Sam just wanted to keep the lines of communication open between captors and captives. They weren't animals, as long as they could communicate their needs and wants.

He heard footsteps, and he turned to see an armed Jem'Hadar marching his way. The guard was flanked by a short Vorta named Joulesh, whom Sam had met only twice before when making official requests. He was not in the habit of meeting with the Vorta; usually a Carda.s.sian glinn was as high as he got.

"This is quite an honor," said Sam, keeping his sarcasm in check.

"You have no idea of the honor," replied Joulesh with an enthusiastic smile. "It is only the beginning."

The little humanoid turned on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor. Under the stern gaze of the guard, Sam followed him. To his surprise, the Vorta stepped into the turbolift and motioned him aboard. Sam entered, expecting the Jem'Hadar guard to follow, but he remained behind in the corridor, glowering at them. The door shut, and they began to move.

Joulesh wrinkled his nose at Sam. "I wish we'd had an opportunity to clean you up somewhat, but this is an emergency. We'll make do. I advise you to behave."

"That depends on what you plan to do to me," said Sam.

The Vorta's silvery eyes twinkled. "What happens to you depends entirely on your interview. You aren't the only candidate for this post. However, I have been keeping an eye on you, and I believe you are the one."

"May I remind you that I'm a prisoner of war," said Sam, "not an employee of the Dominion, Incorporated."

The Vorta brushed some lint off his elegant, silver-brocaded jacket. "You are an a.s.set of the Dominion. Whether you fulfill your potential or end up as waste is your decision. Thus far, you have proven yourself an able worker, and you have tried to improve relations.h.i.+ps between our people. These traits could take you far in the Dominion."

Sam forced himself to keep still and not argue with the popinjay. The fact that the Dominion operated under the guise of business and mutual cooperation didn't make them any less a dictators.h.i.+p. He wondered how long it would take the Carda.s.sians to realize that they were the lackeys in this operation-temporary help until more fleets of Jem'Hadar wars.h.i.+ps arrived.

"I wish the Federation could understand that we only want to bring them under our protection and influence," said Joulesh, sounding like a used shuttlecraft salesman. "Your people don't do us any good if you are dead or imprisoned."

"Then let us go," suggested Sam.

As the door slid open, the Vorta gave him an amused smirk. "We might do so, one at a time. Follow me."

They walked down a well-lit corridor that actually had doorways and multiple exits ... and no Jem'Hadar guards. Sam followed Joulesh into a second turbolift, which had diagonal yellow markings on it. This lift was the deluxe version, Sam decided, as he inspected the plush carpeting and tasteful instrument panel. The lifts he rode were controlled from outside, and this one was controlled by Joulesh's deft fingers. After a trip so smooth that Sam couldn't tell they were moving, the door opened.

"Remember," warned the Vorta, "you are about to meet a G.o.d."

The words didn't register until Sam stepped off the turbolift and found himself in a large observation lounge, with a spread of food and drink in one corner and a lovely window in the other. A few people were scattered about, but the scent of food commanded Sam's attention. Halfway across the room, he saw a remarkable creature-a slim figure dressed in a sparkling beige robe-standing like an angel at the head of the table. His features were hairless and oddly unformed, as if this incarnation were so simple that it didn't require much detail.

A Founder! thought Sam with alarm. It was the first Changeling he had ever seen, and he wasn't certain how to react. Joulesh was practically sc.r.a.ping the floor, so Sam gave his host a respectful bow. He couldn't offer his hand as he could scarcely imagine touching such an ephemeral creature. Despite his halfhearted attempt at a humanoid appearance, the Changeling looked more like an illusion than a real being.

Sam reminded himself that a handful of Changelings had nearly destroyed the Klingon Empire from within. It was disconcerting to know that the creature in front of him could morph into any object or person in the room.

There were other persons in the lounge, and Sam looked at them, wondering if they were really what they seemed. Two Jem'Hadar guards were stationed near a golden basin, and a second Vorta conferred in whispers with Joulesh. Standing by the observation window was a hulking man in a white laboratory coat; he had an uncouth brown beard and brown spots running down his forehead, temples, and neck into his collar.

Enrak Grof. It has to be him, thought Sam. This was quite a meeting. If his cellmates knew he was in this company, he would never be trusted again.

Sam edged toward the food. "Excuse me," he asked the Changeling, "may I eat?"

"Not until the Founder has blessed the food," cautioned Joulesh, sounding aghast at his impertinence.

"It is allowed," said the Founder in a silky voice, nodding at his minion. Bowing low, the Vorta backed away.

Sam attacked a plate of what looked like ham. He didn't care what it was, as long as it was solid food that wouldn't kill him. a.s.suming he would probably say no to whatever proposal they offered him, Sam figured he should eat as much as he could before they kicked him out.

"Lieutenant junior grade Samuel Lavelle, or has he been promoted?" said the Founder, relis.h.i.+ng the unfamiliar syllables of his name. "Captured aboard the Aizawa, formerly stationed on the Enterprise, now technician and Liaison Officer for Pod Eighteen."

Sam mumbled through a mouthful of wonderful food. He was afraid to say much, lest he s...o...b..r all over the plates, but he was impressed that the Founder had used his name instead of a number. He glanced toward Professor Grof, wondering if he would get a chance to speak privately with the most notorious collaborator in the complex. The Trill edged forward, looking as if he wanted to say something; but he also held his tongue. Sam guessed that a smart collaborator didn't interrupt a Founder.

He grabbed some more food. Whatever happened, he was going to try not to get kicked out of this s.h.i.+ndig too quickly. With his determined chewing, Sam nearly choked on the next words he heard from the Founder's smooth lips: "Lieutenant Lavelle, we would like to give you a s.h.i.+p to command."

Chapter Four.

SAM LAVELLE LOWERED HIS PLATE and stared at the Changeling. What a poker face-there was no way to tell if he was the b.u.t.t of a cruel joke, or they were actually trying to recruit him for some nefarious purpose. Changelings were rare in the Alpha Quadrant, and he didn't think one had summoned him only to have a laugh at his expense. Wherever this was going, it had to be dangerous and probably treasonous.

"You'll give me a s.h.i.+p to command?" he repeated slowly. "There's got to be a catch. Why don't I continue to eat, and you can explain to me what you want. Exactly."

"First," said the Changeling, "do you know anything about the act of sabotage which occurred today?"

Sam looked around the tasteful observation lounge, and he could tell from their earnest faces that they were serious. "Sabotage? Do you mean the accident? I was out there at the time, and that accident was caused entirely by the boneheaded Carda.s.sians."

From force of habit, he looked nervously around the room, but there were no Carda.s.sians present. Every other race of importance was represented at this meeting, but not the lackeys. So Sam decided he could speak freely.

"I don't know what you were moving out there, but they put on their thrusters too early and disturbed the stasis field."

"b.u.mbling fools!" muttered Grof, unable to contain himself any longer. "I've warned them often enough."

"You said it wasn't entirely their fault," whined Joulesh. He looked accusingly at Grof.

The Trill folded his thick arms. "I warned you that the compound was too unstable, and that they were the wrong ones to handle it. I believe I was proven right on both counts."

"But all of our models-"

Sam was beginning to enjoy this bickering when the Changeling glided gracefully between the Vorta and the Trill. "Enough. Explain it to him so that he can understand it."

Dumb it down for the stupid human, thought Sam, bristling at the tone of the Changeling's words. But he was willing to listen until the food ran out.

Grof pointed accusingly at the Vorta. "They chose the wrong material to reinforce the mouth of the wormhole. I'm sure you know enough physics, Lieutenant, to realize that we can't use a common building material for the opening. Unless we use the right substance, the collider will get torn apart by the extreme pressures."

The scientist paced the length of the table, looking with disgust at the Vorta. "They listened to the Carda.s.sians, who a.s.sured them they could use a material made of sub-quark particles, despite the volatility. After the stasis field was destroyed, the sub-quark particles recombined.

"There is a far more elegant approach. The Federation isolated the perfect substance only a few years ago-it's stable after it's extracted and recombined. We are the only ones who have succeeded in extracting it."

"Corzanium," answered Sam.

"Ah," said Grof with satisfaction, "I see you are versed on the latest research."

"Not really," admitted the human. "My friend, Taurik, was telling me about it. He admires your work, but he doesn't think much of you personally."

"A common sentiment," muttered the Trill, "but misguided. We are on the verge of great discoveries, great leaps forward-after our cultures merge. In the short term, Federation personnel are the best equipped to find and extract the Corzanium. We certainly can't rely on the Carda.s.sians."

"Lieutenant Lavelle, will you command the craft?" asked the Founder bluntly. Joulesh's oversized ears twitched expectantly as the Vorta awaited his answer.

"Into a black hole?" scoffed Sam. "Isn't that where this stuff comes from? I can see why you don't want Carda.s.sians-they're probably too smart to undertake such a crazy mission."

Despite the bravado, Sam was stalling for time as he tried to reason it out. Even though he might go down as the greatest traitor in Starfleet history, the chance to escape from the prison with a s.h.i.+p under his command was too tempting to pa.s.s up. Survival instincts that he thought were long dormant suddenly surged to the surface, and Sam envisioned himself making a break for freedom.

Besides, he knew that if he refused, he would be dead. They had told him too much to let him return to Pod 18 and the general prison population.

"Will you give us an answer," said Joulesh, "or simply continue to eat and make snide comments?"

"What do I get out of it?" asked Sam.

"You will receive your freedom," answered the Founder somberly, as if this were the greatest gift he could bestow.

"I get to pick my crew," said Sam.

"Boy, don't make this difficult!" snarled Grof. "Just say yes to the Founder, and let's get on with it."

Sam cautioned himself to remain as stone-faced as the Changeling and his retinue. He truly was not in a position to bargain, but maybe he was in a position to make a difference. It would appear that his patience, gift of gab, and good work habits were about to get him promoted in the prison hierarchy-into his real job. Sam wished he didn't have the spectre of Enrak Grof staring at him as he decided his fate. Either way, he doubted whether he would live to reflect on this decision.