WORIN TURNED TO his aide in near panic. Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he always did when worried, he snapped, "Those maniacs are going to destroy our world!" He forced himself to think for a moment. "Get Major Marel, and order an immediate launch of every fighting vessel we have. Tell him our very existence depends on his skills."
"Yes, sir," the aide said with alacrity, vanishing toward the communications room.
Hurrying that way himself, Worin tried hard not to collapse in shock. It was unthinkable that anyone would be doing just what the alien intruders threatened, but they were quite clearly as serious as they were demented. Given the size of the incoming ship, he was virtually certain that they'd never hold this attack off alone. He needed help, and he needed it fast. Entering the communications room, he rushed to the nearest console.
"Clear whatever you're doing immediately," he snapped. "And open a channel to Bajor highest priority."
"Yes, sir." The woman obeyed promptly, simply cutting the channel she'd been using and opening a new one. "Whom shall I ask for?"
"First Minister Shakaar, and no one else," Worin answered, feverishly. He tapped his fingers on the top of the console impatiently as the woman patched through the call. A moment later, Shakaar's harried-looking face appeared on the screen.
"Yes?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "I'm very busy, so—"
"Darane Four is under attack by an unknown alien species!" blurted out Worin, unable to contain his panic any longer. "They've threatened to destroy our world and kill us all!"
Shakaar's face went almost blank, but Worin could see in his eyes that he was thinking fast. "All right," Shakaar snapped. "Hold them as long as you can. What kind of defense do you have?"
"Not much," Worin answered. "Just a few dozen interceptors. We never dreamed that anything like this could ever happen!"
"I'll mobilize whatever forces I can to help," Shakaar promised. "And I'll contact Captain Sisko for help from the Federation. Keep this channel open, and send us all the information you can." He looked away from the screen. "You," he called. "Over here. Record everything that comes through at this board." He turned back to Worin. "Do your best. Help is on its way." He moved out of sight, and a young woman took his place.
Worin wrung his hands together. Help is on its way. . . .
But from Bajor, two systems away. It would be hours before anyone could arrive, assuming they were already in space. As for help from the Federation—how long would that take? By treaty with the Cardassians, they weren't allowed any permanent show of force in this sector. Any starships they'd send would have to take days to get here. . . .
It looked very, very bad for Darane. . . .
"All units," Marel transmitted, "signal in and identify yourselves." He stood on the bridge of the Morvan Falls, the largest ship in the Darnian fleet Largest! It was a smallish battle cruiser, with a crew of fifty-eight. It didn't have the firepower to take out a starship, let alone whatever their unknown enemy might fling at them. And, judging from what his sensors were showing, the aliens must have a tremendous force. Their main vessel was thousands of miles long—how many attack ships might it hold?
Still, it was all irrelevant. There was no question of his duty and his responsibility. He had to do his best to defend Darane IV, and at the very least buy the planet all the time he could until reinforcements arrived.
"All ships reported in," his first officer announced. She grimaced slightly. "Eighty-six ships, most of them low-level interceptors. We've got just three further cruisers, sir."
"Then that will have to be sufficient," he replied firmly.
"Anything yet on the aliens?"
"Not yet." She gestured at the screen, where the huge ship was already visible, even though it was still half the system away. "They've not launched anything at all." She chewed her lip uncertainly. "Do you think the whole craft is a fighter?"
"We'd better pray it isn't," he answered. "If it were, I can't think of anything this side of a Borg ship that might be able to stop them." He considered for a moment. "All right. Signal all ships to begin closing in. Let's take the battle as close to the enemy as we can."
She nodded. "All ships," she called out. "Prepare for action. Target, ahead, bearing one nine oh mark four. Distance—"
Tuning her out, Marel studied the image on the screen ahead of him. What kind of weapons do they have? he wondered. And why are they so arrogant, so confident?
Pakat moved closer to Dron. All of the Hivemasters were still in the conference room, and would be until the battle was over, but they had broken into smaller clumps to talk quietly. Only Dron sat alone, watching his comp to keep up to date with everything that was happening.
"They have launched attack vessels," Pakat reported. "They have begun the fight."
"Excellent." Dron gave his friend a smile of satisfaction and confidence. "Nothing your pilots cannot handle, I take it?"
"Of course not." Pakat sounded slightly shocked at the mere thought. "At your word, I will launch the first flight."
Dron considered for a moment, then decided. "Allow them to get closer," he said. "I want it perfectly clear that they have commenced this action. They are scared," he added. "They will fire the first shots. Then annihilate them."
"Understood." Pakat moved off to his communications station. His eagerness for the impending battle showed in his jaunty steps. Dron smiled again.
The Great Design was almost upon them, and he had the honor and glory of leading the Hive to their destiny! He glanced around the room, taking in the faces of the other Hivemasters. They all looked tense, but none of them looked worried—except for Tork. He was as nervous as a shallath tossed in water.
And he was talking animatedly with that old fool, Hosir. Dron frowned. What did the two of them have in common? Then he shrugged the matter off. It wasn't really important. Neither of them had voiced any dissent to his policies. Neither of them would dare to object to the implementation of the Great Design.
"Target closing fast," the first officer reported.
Marel nodded. "Still no sign of their ships?" He was juggling plans in his head. With his small fleet, there was no feasible way of attacking the main vessel.
"Not yet," she answered.
"And how about sensor readings on the intruder itself?"
"They reveal nothing at all," the first officer reported. "The sensors simply seem to slide off that metal—if it is metal. I can't read anything at all inside the craft … city … whatever it is. There are several places in the skin of the ship that look like portals and—" She broke off, and bent over her screen. "Sir, one of the portals has opened. The aliens have launched … one hundred ships."
"On screen," Marel ordered. The picture flickered and then showed a close-up of one section of the intruder. A portal had irised open, and dozens of small, dartlike ships were flooding out. Interestingly, they traveled in pairs. Marel's mind clicked on this. Was this an attack formation, or did they have some kind of need to be together?
"Signal all ships," he ordered. "Engage the enemy at will."
"Yes, sir." She bent to the panel to issue the order.
Marel studied the ships as they spiralled out from the alien craft. They were smaller even than most of his ships. They didn't look to be that formidable.
Why, then, did he have a very bad feeling about this?
"Weapons?" he called out.
"Primed and ready," the gunner answered. "Shields at maximum."
"Take us in," he ordered the helmswoman. "Sublight drive at half, full sensor sweeps." He turned back to his first officer. "Any readings on those craft?"
She studied her board. "Similar metallic construction to the intruder," she replied thoughtfully. "Not as dense, but still almost impossible to break through. I read the power source from its reactor, but no sign of weapons buildup. They do possess shields." She scowled. "Pretty good ones, too."
"No weapons?" Marel shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he complained. "They're intercepting us. They must have some sort of weapons."
"I'm not reading any energy buildups," she insisted. "Nothing to show that any weapons systems we know are being brought on-line."
What was going on here? Marel nervously chewed at his thumbnail. "What about projectile weapons?" Maybe they weren't very sophisticated?
"Nothing that I can detect," she replied, sounding as puzzled as he did. "There's nothing at all that I can pinpoint as a weapon on any of those ships."
"Suicide bombers?" he mused. Maybe their plan was to collide with the Daranian craft and explode themselves and their targets?
"There's no sign of them trying to overload their reactors," the first officer objected. "Surely they'd do that to take out another ship?"
"Maybe," Marel agreed uncertainly. He'd never encountered anything like this. The alien ships, all in pairs, were now targeting his ships and moving to intercept. What kind of soldier went into battle without weapons?
The answer was obvious: none. They had to have some kind of weapon.
So—what was it?
"Careful," he muttered to himself, as the first of his interceptors sped toward the spreading alien ships. "They're up to something."
And then the firing began. The two lead ships phasered blasts at the closest of the enemy ships. There was a brief flare of shields. "Report!" barked Marel.
"The alien ships' shields are standing," his first officer answered. "They're very strong from the prow," she added. "Built to take attack."
He nodded his comprehension of the report, and through narrowed eyes surveyed the images on the screen. The enemy still hadn't fired back, and there was no sign of any weapons. What was going on here?
The firt of the twinned alien ships approached one of his interceptors. Marel concentrated on seeing what they were going to do.
Apparently, they did nothing. Each of the ships simply passed the interceptor by on opposing sides—
—leaving only minute wreckage, as the interceptor seemed to just disintegrate in space.
"What the hell happened?" Marel growled, frustrated, puzzled and furious. "What did they do?"
His first officer looked up, stunned. "I don't know," she answered. "They didn't use any kind of energy at all. The ship just … fell apart."
"Ships don't just fall apart!" he exclaimed. "They must have done something, and I want to know what!" His eyes were riveted to the screen, when two more alien ships passed over and below a second interceptor.
Like the first, it seemed to simply fall apart as it fell, dissolving into tiny, indetectable pieces.
What was going on here? What kind of weaponry did these aliens possess?
And was there any defense against it?
Marel knew he didn't have very long to discover the answer to that. Phaser blasts seared across the screen again, but their energy was dissipated against unflagging shields. A third and fourth interceptor simply ceased to exist.
They were losing this battle; he was losing his men. And the aliens were simply plowing through his ships as if they didn't exist. Once they had passed, the ships didn't exist. . . .
Tork stood nervously, clenching and unclenching his hands as he watched the holographic representation of the battle above the conference table. The aliens had begun the fight, true, but they were being annihilated by the Hive forces.
Why did he feel so bad inside?
"It is never very pleasant to watch anyone die," Hosir told him gently. "I know; I'm very old, and I've seen most of my friends, colleagues, and family die." He gestured at the ongoing battle. "Even if they are aliens, and insane, it is still regrettable that they perish."
"Yes," Tork agreed. "I wish it had not come to this. If they had only been reasonable."
Hosir smiled. "If snarks had wings, maybe you could train your breakfast to come to you, "he quoted. "What is, is. That is another thing you learn with age. Regrets help no one, least of all the one who regrets. These aliens are what they are. We are what we are." He pointed again at the whirling images. "Because of that, this was inevitable."
Tork sighed. "And how many more times will it be inevitable?" he asked.
"That depends on the aliens in this new galaxy, youngster." Hosir sighed, too, a long, protracted sound. "To be honest, I am afraid it we may be compelled to repeat this every time. Still, let us try and speak of less violent matters. You are new to the Hivemaster status, and I know very little about you. Tell me about yourself."
Unable to tear his gaze away from the battle, Tork wrinkled his nose slightly. "This is not the time to speak of peaceful things."
"On the contrary," the oldster answered. "Now is the perfect time. When wars wage without," he quoted, "there is only peace within."
"Actually," Tork couldn't help but reply; "the original reads: When war is without, seek peace within."
"Does it indeed?" There was a hint of a smile on Hosir's face. "How could I have misquoted so badly?"
"It is not your fault, sir," Tork said quickly, thankful he hadn't caused offense with his unthinking reply. "It is just that … well, I am a scholar of the Texts. I have been researching them for some time."
"And you've found … errors?" asked Hosir, obviously being deliberately provocative.
"Not that," Tork said, aghast. "Merely … some small changes."
"Indeed?"
Hosir seemed to be genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say, unlike most of the elders. Tork had been afraid that his research might have brought him trouble. Instead, they had brought him the badge of a Hivemaster. "You no doubt recall the time of the Two Hundred and Third Hive," he said.
"Not personally," Hosir answered, laughing. "I'm not quite that ancient. But I know all the stories of the mutineers, and their overthrow, of course. And their attempts to change the Texts and alter our Great Design. But nothing came of it."
"Not exactly," Tork answered. "You see, I studied the commentaries from the early Hives—Two Hundred and Four through Seven specifically."
Hosir's nose twitched. "Not many now read those commentaries," he said slowly. "They've been considered obsolete and generally pretty foolish for fifty millennia. I hope you have not been too influenced by them."
"Not the commentaries," Tork agreed, with a bark of derision. "I assure you, they are just as foolish as legend has it. No, what interested me is the way the scholars quoted the Texts. Their versions are very similar to ours, but in some cases they differ slightly. As in the quote you just used. Now, it seems to me that the ancient scholars were much, much closer to the Texts than we are, and would therefore have known them better. To misquote them—and to do so quite consistently—is hard to believe."
"And you chose to believe instead?" prompted Hosir.
"My conclusion was that there have been some minor alterations to the Texts over the millennia," Tork answered slowly. "Nothing large, nothing significant, but changes nonetheless."
"An intriguing suggestion," Hosir said dryly, "and not a popular one, I would wager. So, how is your research progressing?"
"Not too well," admitted Tork. "Being a Hivemaster is virtually a full-time occupation. And, with the Great-Design now so close to fulfillment …" He spread his hands helplessly.
Hosir nodded, and then directed his gaze across the table. Tork followed suit, and saw that Dron was watching them closely. As soon as he realized he had been seen, Dron looked away.
"I wonder if that is why you were made a Hivemaster?" mused Hosir. "So that you wouldn't have time for your research?"
Tork couldn't follow this. "I am sorry, I do not understand."
Hosir gave a throaty chuckle. "In my youth, I was a bit of a rebel, too," he confessed. "I am not shocked by your suggestion, though I'm sure that many in the Hive would be. Perhaps you have been kept deliberately too busy to continue your studies. It is worth considering, you know. After all, if the Texts have been changed, only the Hivemasters could have done the work. And I doubt the current Grand Master would want that fact known."
Startled by this, Tork exclaimed, "You cannot be suggesting what it sounds as if you are."
"Can I not?" Hosir shrugged. "I am old; perhaps I am too old. Perhaps my words get away from my brain." His nose wrinkled. "Or perhaps you are too young to be dedicated completely to the truth." He patted the youngster on the shell. "Think about what I have said. And then think about what you will do about it."
Kira glanced up as her board registered an incoming message from Bajor. It had been pretty peaceful on the station for the past few days—if she ignored two fights in Quark's, one smuggling arrest, and several minor breakdowns. It had seemed even quieter since O'Brien and his engineers had been spending most of their waking hours working on the Defiant, trying to get it spaceworthy once again. It was strange not to see him fiddling with the systems here in Ops.
This was probably nothing but a routine call, but Kira felt a little tense as she punched the command to bring the call up on her screen. Her worries faded as she saw Shakaar's face. "Shakaar!" she exclaimed in delight. She had fought under his superb leadership as a freedom fighter while Bajor had been occupied by the Cardassians, and now sadly saw far too little of him. "I haven't heard from you since you won the election! By the way, I haven't cong—"
"This isn't a social call, Nerys," he said tightly, and Kira stopped talking. There was pain in every line on his handsome face. "Can I speak to Captain Sisko, please? It's most urgent."
"Ten seconds," she promised, recognizing the urgency in his voice. She glanced up at Sisko, who was conferring with Dax in low tones at the science station. "Captain," she called. "First Minister Shakaar is calling—extremely urgently for you."
Sisko sighed. "If it's not one thing …" he muttered. He strode across the room to her panel. Kira moved aside to give him access, but remained close enough to hear what was said. "First Minister, it's always a pleasure."
"Not this time," Shakaar said bluntly. "I've just received a distress call from Darane Four. They're under attack by some unknown alien species and need help desperately. I've already dispatched what ships I can spare, but …"
"Understood," Sisko answered. Kira could see the tension grip him as he spoke. "I'll do what I can. We'll contact you again when we're on our way. Sisko out." he cut the line and turned to Kira. "Tell O'Brien that the Defiant is leaving now," he ordered. "Assemble the crew. I'm going to punch through a request for aid from Starfleet."
Kira knew she had to state the obvious. "Captain, the Defiant is still not repaired. According to O'Brien's last report, there's still only partial shields, and the weapons aren't on-line."
"I'm aware of that, Major," Sisko said softly. "But do you want us just to sit here and do nothing?" She shook her head vehemently. "Neither do I. Tell him we launch in fifteen minutes, and he can do whatever work he's able to in transit. But, battle-ready or not, we launch."