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"Right." Sisko looked at Dax. "Any sign of the attacking ship?"

  "No, sir." Dax shook her head for emphasis, still watching her screens. "Not even a sensor shadow."

  Sisko looked back at the screen, then down at his own console, the first hint of a plan beginning to take shape in his mind. "Fin'Yrach, what's your cargo?"

  There was a little silence, almost a hesitation, before the Xawe answered. "Why do you want to know?"

  "Can you tell me, please?" Sisko bit back his impatience, willing the Xawe to answer. After a moment, fin'Yrach's barbels drooped, and the translator relayed a sigh.

  "We are carrying the taxes and the ceremonial tithe from Anabasi—our richest colony world—to Xawen itself. We carry letters of credit, and three thousand bars of gold-pressed latinum. And handicrafts of the planet."

  "Three thousand?" Sisko repeated. He heard O'Brien whistle, looked toward the engineering station to see the younger man staring openmouthed.

  "I wonder what they mean by handicrafts," the engineer muttered.

  Dax said, "Sir, Xawen is particularly noted for its manufacture of computer equipment, which they treat as an art form—"

  "All right," Sisko said again. "Major Kira. I want you to take the Ganges, and rendezvous with Gift of Flight—a Federation presence may be enough to scare off this mysterious attacker, now that they're in Federation space."

  "Yes, sir." Kira nodded sharply, touched her communicator to contact the docking bay.

  Sisko touched the intercom controls. "Dr. Bashir."

  To his surprise, the young doctor answered at once. "Infirmary. Bashir here."

  "Doctor, we have a ship under attack, a Xawen ship, and I'm sending a runabout to intercept and offer assistance. Put together a medical kit that can go into the runabout—and I need it immediately."

  "Yes, sir." Bashir's voice did not change. "Um, sir, these are the amphibious Xawe?"

  Sisko suppressed a surge of unreasonable annoyance. I don't mind him being right all the time, what I mind is him rubbing my nose in it. He said, "That's right, Doctor. Immediately, if you please."

  "Yes, sir." There was a little pause, but Bashir didn't cut the connection. "Sir, request permission to join the runabout crew."

  "Bashir, you're a doctor, not a combat pilot—" Sisko stopped, took a deep breath.

  Bashir said, "Yes, sir. But if their ship comes under further attack, there may be wounded, and I'm best qualified to provide frontline treatment. I'm more familiar with my own equipment than anyone else is, too."

  And that was true, Sisko admitted. Bashir was young, inexperienced, but as far as medical training went, he was one of the best Sisko had ever worked with. "All right, Doctor," he said. "Bring your equipment to the docking bay—you're going aboard Ganges."

  "Thank you, sir," Bashir answered, and cut the connection.

  "Sir, the docking crew reports that Ganges is ready for preflight," Kira reported.

  "Very well," Sisko said. He gestured for O'Brien to reopen the channel to the Xawe ship. "Captian fin'Yrach, how many people are in your crew?"

  The Xawe's barbels twitched. "We carry a crew of fourteen."

  Sisko allowed himself a sigh of relief. It would be a tight squeeze, but the Ganges could carry them. "We're sending an armed runabout to rendezvous with your ship. Keep to course one-nine-six mark fourteen—your most direct line to us—as much as you can. We'll be tracking you from the station as well."

  The Xawe dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Commander. We will proceed as ordered."

  "Sisko out." Sisko motioned for O'Brien to shut down communications, looked away to find Dax watching him with a slight frown. "Well, Lieutenant?"

  His tone was forbidding, and intended to be so, but Dax ignored it. "Benjamin, fin'Yrach has already said that Gift of Flight was outgunned by this—this pirate. Our runabouts aren't well enough armed to make much of a difference."

  "I know." Sisko was aware of Kira watching him, waiting for further orders. The Bajoran was already fond of lost causes, too fond in his opinion, and it was to her he spoke. "Major, I don't expect you to fight the attacker—in fact, I'm ordering you to avoid a firefight if you possibly can. My main concern is Gift of Flight's crew. Your primary mission is to get them to safety. If you can bluff the attacker now that he's in Federation territory, well and good, but my main concern is fin'Yrach and his people."

  "Yes, sir," Kira said. She stood braced for an instant, then burst out, "Sir, Bashir's a doctor—"

  "Precisely," Sisko said, riding over whatever objection she might have made. "You may need one."

  Kira took a deep breath, nodded once. "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  "Then let's get on with it, Major," Sisko said. "And good luck."

  Major Kira Nerys made her way through the corridors of the habitat ring to the service bay where the Ganges was docked. The airlock at the station end of the docking tube hissed open for her, and she hurried down the dimly lit corridor, the airlock rolling closed again behind her. The second lock opened, and she stepped into the runabout's crowded cockpit. Three of O'Brien's technicians—fellow Bajorans, all of them; none of them familiar—were busy at the various stations, working on the preflight checks. One of them—the senior, Kira assumed, a tall man with a receding hairline and a concerned frown that looked permanent—looked up from his work and came to meet her, snagging a dataclip as he came.

  "Major Kira. We've finished bringing Ganges on line, and we're about halfway through the preflights." He held out the dataclip, and Kira took it, mutely. "The phasers and shields are all fully operational, but I wanted to remind you that you only have two microtorpedoes aboard. We could load another one, but that would take time—"

  "How much time?" Kira asked, scanning the dataclip's miniature screen. As promised, everything seemed to be in order, but it would be nice to have more to fight with than just the runabout's standard equipment.

  "Another hour, at least," the technician answered.

  And that really was too much time. Kira shook her head, forced a fleeting smile. "Thanks anyway, I think I'll pass. When will we be ready to launch?"

  "As soon—" The technician interrupted himself as one of the others turned away from the last console, tucking her dataclip back into a belt pouch. "You can begin the pilot's preflight now, Major."

  That was the last step before launch. Kira nodded. "Thanks," she said again, and flung herself into the tiny command chair. The boards lit at her touch, and she ran her hands over the controls, initiating the final check sequence. She heard the airlock open and close again behind her, assumed it was the technicians leaving, and did not look up until she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

  "Excuse me, Major? Where should I stow my equipment?"

  Bashir, Kira thought. Sisko would have to send Bashir. She understood why he was there, knew he was needed, would be better with the wounded than anyone else aboard the station—but if there aren't any wounded, she thought, if I pull this off without a fight, I am personally going to have words with Sisko when I return. She put that thought aside—she didn't mean it, anyway—and said, "Somewhere accessible, Doctor."

  "Yes, I know," Bashir said, in the politely reasonable voice she found most annoying. "But where are you planning to put the Xawe when we bring them aboard?"

  It was not, Kira admitted silently, an unreasonable question. And I don't have an answer yet. She looked down at her controls, playing for time, and the communicator crackled.

  "Major Kira."

  It was Sisko's voice, rich and assured, and Kira took a breath to calm herself. "Kira here, sir. Dr. Bashir's aboard, and I'm pursuing the final preflight. We should be ready to launch in ten minutes."

  "Good." Sisko paused, and Kira could hear indistinct voices in the background, but couldn't spare a glance at the smaller viewscreen to see what was going on. "Dax has the plans for the Xawe ship—it's a standard freighter, a Federation hull—to upload to you, just in case the transporters aren't working
and you have to take them off directly. She suggests you leave your ventral airlock clear for emergency use; it should be easier to mate to their airlocks."

  "Very good, sir," Kira said. "Standing by to download."

  "Downloading," Dax answered, and lights flared on a secondary console.

  Kira turned to Bashir, and was surprised to see that the doctor had already finished tucking his equipment into hull-mounted storage compartments. He had left the approaches to the transporter and the ventral airlock completely clear. He was wrestling a final piece of equipment—some kind of a scanner, Kira thought—into place beside a pull-down emergency bunk, mating its cords to the runabout's power supply.

  "It's a hydrator," he said, sounding almost cheerful. "The Xawe are prone to dehydration. They don't have a very efficient circulatory system, and they require a great deal of moisture from the air as well as from their drinking system. This should help keep them from going into anhydric shock."

  "Oh." Kira looked back at her boards, saw that the download was complete, and turned her attention to the preflights still flickering through her systems. They were almost finished, and even as she watched, the last indicator bar went from yellow to green.

  "Can I help with anything?" Bashir asked, and took his place in the copilot's chair without waiting for an invitation.

  Yes, by keeping quiet, Kira thought, but curbed her own tongue. He was also Starfleet, and that meant, of necessity, he knew how to fly a runabout. The little ships were easier to handle with a two-person crew. "Open a channel to Ops," she said instead, and to her surprise, Bashir obeyed instantly.

  "Channel's open, Major."

  "Kira here. We're ready to launch."

  "This is Sisko." The commander's voice was very calm, a deep, soothing resonance that no longer deceived Kira. "You may launch when ready, Major."

  "Keying the elevator," Kira said. The runabout shivered as the docking tube withdrew, and then there was a soft rumble of machinery, more felt than heard, as the elevator began to move, lifting the runabout to the surface of the station. The hold light flashed red on her main screen, and stayed red even after the elevator shuddered to a halt.

  "Put the scanners through to the main viewscreen," she said, and Bashir obeyed without comment. The screen lit, displaying the outer skin of the habitat ring as it curved away from the runabout. To the left, the core of the station rose in massive terraces, a warning light blinking from Ops at the very top of the station; to the right, the upper docking pylon loomed at the top of the screen, more lights blinking from its tip.

  "Ganges, you are clear to launch," Sisko's voice said, from the speakers. "And good luck, Major."

  "Thank you, sir," Kira said, and took a firm grip on the controls. "Launching now."

  Ganges was light to her touch, responsive to her controls. Kira eased the runabout free of the pad, then threaded her way past the upper docking pylons. "We've cleared the station," she announced, and was not surprised when Sisko answered.

  "You're cleared for impulse power, Major. Our sensors show that the Gift of Flight is maintaining a more or less constant heading, still on course one-nine-six mark fourteen. Backtrack along that line until your sensors pick up the ship."

  Kira glanced at Bashir, who shook his head. "I don't show any sign of it."

  He seemed to have the sensors aligned correctly. Kira said, "We're not picking them up yet, Commander. You'll have to talk us in, at least until we're in sensor range."

  "Acknowledged, Ganges," Sisko said. "Dax will keep you on course."

  "Thank you, sir," Kira said. She was oddly glad it was Dax who would be guiding them; she liked the Trill. "Going to impulse now," she said, and triggered the engines. The station seemed to drop abruptly away as the runabout picked up speed, all internal sense of motion banished by the inertial damping system. Kira smiled, watching the stars' apparent motion, and brought the runabout onto its proper course.

  "Who do you think is out there, Major?" Bashir said suddenly.

  Kira looked at him in surprise. It was hard, she thought, to know how to answer a question like that: it was too tempting to be literal, and tell him, "The Xawe and a pirate," when she needed to stay on at least civil terms with him for the duration of their journey.

  "I mean," Bashir elaborated, "who do you think is attacking?"

  "I figured," Kira said. She had been wondering that herself, wondering if it was some new Cardassian ploy—but the Cardassians didn't have the cloaking device. "I don't know. There's not really enough data to make a guess."

  "Do you think it could be the Cardassians?" Bashir went on.

  "Gift of Flight said the ship was cloaked," Kira said. "Cardassians don't have the cloaking device." Yet, a small voice whispered in her mind. They don't have it yet. And if the Cardassians did have the cloaking device, they would certainly use it, she thought, and probably in just this fashion, trying it out on defenseless merchant ships first, and then proceeding against their enemy's warships and planets. . . . "I don't know," she said again, hoping to silence the internal voice. "We just can't tell."

  "Ganges." That was Dax's voice, and Kira seized gratefully on the interruption.

  "Ganges here. What's up, Dax?"

  "Another transmission from Gift of Flight," the Trill answered, and her voice was grim. "The attacker has fired on them again. They've taken evasive action, but they're still on the same approximate heading. I suggest you proceed at maximum speed."

  "Acknowledged," Kira said. "Bashir, stand by for warp drive."

  "Yes, sir," Bashir said. "Major, did we get a look at the attacker?"

  Kira darted an annoyed glance at him—she hated it when he got his questions in first—and said, "Dax?"

  "Nothing immediately identifiable," Dax answered. "I got some readings, but the ship cloaked itself again almost immediately. We'll be running them through the computers to see if we can pick up anything on enhancement. Gift of Flight reports no direct damage, but the captain says their engines are beginning to feel the strain."

  "Damn." Kira shook herself. "Thanks, Dax." She looked at Bashir. "Warp four, Doctor."

  "Yes, sir," Bashir said, and the stars hazed briefly in the viewscreen. "Warp four."

  Kira leaned back in the command chair, watching the numbers shift on her screens. Everything was operating at peak efficiency, all systems green, but she wondered, suddenly, if it would be enough. Whatever was out there—and it felt Cardassian, somehow, the sort of thing they would do—it was a potentially dangerous enemy, and the runabouts were never meant to be warships. But you stood up against the Cardassians with less than this, she reminded herself. You can do it again.

  * * *

  Dax watched her multiple screens carefully, emptying her mind of everything except the point of light that was the enhanced image of the Xawe ship, and the cross that marked the last sighting of the attacker. Paler lines and symbols overlaid the map of space, indicating both physical features and the invisible, political distinctions. Gift of Flight was inside the Federation's borders now, but not by much; at the projected rendezvous point, Ganges would be coming perilously close to the space claimed by the Cardassians. And that was always dangerous, particularly when Kira was concerned. Kira had every reason to hate the Cardassians, and she lacked the temperament—the years of experience, of training and of healing—that would let her step back from a challenge, weigh all the implications before she acted. It was, Dax admitted silently, one of the Bajoran's most appealing traits. The corners of her mouth lifted in a faint, fond smile, and she brought herself back to her work. In the long-range screen, Gift of Flight was clearly visible, a bright pinpoint of light against the schematic chart of the border; on a second, smaller screen, Gift of Flight's course curved in to meet Ganges's approach.

  "Any further signs of the attacker?" Sisko asked, his deep voice rumbling from a point just above and behind her shoulder, and Dax glanced up without surprise. She and Sisko tended to think in parallel; it was one of the reasons s
he had been glad of this assignment.

  "Not yet." She touched her control board, displayed a blue cross above and to the left of Gift of Flight's course. "This was its location when it fired on Gift of Flight; if it continues on its apparent heading at that point—" She drew a ghostly line that paralleled the Xawe's course. "—this will be its course. However…"

  She paused, and Sisko said, finishing her thought, "You can't tell much that's useful from one sighting. Dammit, why don't they show themselves?"

  "I'm not picking up wave emissions," Dax said, answering the thought rather than the words. "Not at this range." Sisko nodded. "Do the computers make anything from the enhancements?"

  Dax shook her head again. "It's large, or at least very massive, but that's about all I've been able to determine."

  "How large?"

  "From one-third to one-half the size of a Galaxy-class starship," Dax answered. "I can't be more precise at this point."

  "One-third to one-half—" Sisko broke off, frowning.

  That made it nearly as large as his own lost Saratoga. A hostile ship that size would almost have to be heavily armed, and provided with a power plant to match its mass, which meant that Kira was heading into more danger than she, or he, had bargained for. He controlled his instinctive response with a firmness born of long practice. He had long ago learned that his first response to any situation was always the active one; it often worked, but more often it paid him to wait a moment longer, and see what other options were available. Dax's data wasn't firm yet, any more than her course projection could be more than a guess at the stranger's intent. "Or it could simply be very massive," he said, repeating Dax's words. "Heavily armored, maybe?"

  Dax nodded. "That's the other possible interpretation of these readings. The computer won't decide between them; they're both considered to have a thirty percent probability of being the correct assessment."

  "And which do you think is right, Lieutenant?"

  Dax took a breath, buying time for her answer—she couldn't be sure, not with the scanty data—and new lights exploded on her screen. She swung to face her screen, hands already dancing across her controls, and saw a new presence fade into existence, a sensor trace that was already all too familiar. "They're back, Benjamin," she said. "They're firing again."