The hasperat was good, but Tyre had had better. Damn Cardassians couldn't roll one of the things to save their collective lizard-like hides. Guess that's what you get when you try to wipe out the people who invented them, he thought ruefully and took another bite. Races and civilizations were funny that way: they'd spare no expense subjugating, killing, enslaving, eventually in some cases, annihilating some poor bunch of SOBs who rubbed them the wrong way, then ten, fifteen, fifty years down the line, all the trappings of the conquered race is suddenly chic. In the twentieth century on Earth, Native American folk art, jewelry, and bastardized rituals were all the rage. This barely hundred years after the Native Americans had been herded onto reservations to quietly die.
Xeno-Sociologists had excuses and explanations for this up the ying-yang, but Tyre never gave them much regard. To him, it was just the currents and eddies of his work. And the damn hasperat was still coming apart.
"You have a taste for Bajoran cuisine?" Gul Breheed boomed from across the cheap, metal table. The sheer boisterousness of his voice made the flimsy thing shake. "You should have been by side during the occupation! Many of my contemporaries looked down at the foodstuffs of Bajor, but not I! I ate what they ate. I had them prepare it for me. Because I wanted to know them, and what better way to know them than to put in your body what they do, eh?"
Judging from his girth, Breheed had sucked down more than his fair share of hasperat, Tyre thought.
"Seems like a sound enough policy. Your Dominion peers feel the same way about conquered people? Hearts and minds and all that? Or do they just dump the metogenic devices on them from orbit? Rip the whole atmosphere away?" Tyre took another bite while Breheed stewed.
"Animals. You know that, don't you? They're animals. Conquest is a messy but necessary reality of life, of existence. It must be done in a particular way to be most effective. We Cardassians have perfected it."
Oh buddy, have you ever... Tyre thought.
"But these Dominion? With their Vorta pawns and Jem'Hadar soldiers. They're aloof. They do not know what real conquest should be about. Kill whole populations? No. You must educate. If you have resistance, then crush them. Show them they were wrong. Do you know what the most effective tool is--no, two most effective tools are--to deal with resistance fighters? Terrorists?"
Tyre sized up the big Cardassian sitting across from him, dipping his hasperat in yarmolk sauce. "Well, I want to say orbital sterilizations and public executions, but I'm pretty sure that's not gonna be right."
"No! They are time and education! Do you understand? You educate over time. The day you break a resistance movement is the day the children of its leaders and founders renounce their parents. Did you know that?"
"I must confess I didn't."
"These are the realities--these are the burdens of being Cardassian. The Dominion knows nothing of this. That is why they must be opposed. And that brings us to our business, eh? What do you have for me and my friends in the colony?"
Tyre reached into the pack beside him and pulled out a rifle and laid it across the table between them. "Phaser rifle Type Three. Gyroscopically stabilized, multitarget sighting, autonomous recharge, and a light up top here..."
"Bah!" Breheed waved a hand dismissively, which was about what Tyre expected. "Old! Outdated! My friends are challenging the Jem'Hadar. We need something new. Something lethal. Something will kill five, ten of them before the finger is taken from the trigger."
"You want the compression rifles?"
"What? I am speaking to no one? Yes! The Federation had far surpassed us in small arms. Cardassians have nothing like it."
"Those are hard to get," Tyre said evenly.
"I give you troop deployments? Shipyard positions? You say a number of rifles are hard to get?"
"Come on," Tyre sneered. "Some long-range satellites, a couple of recon missions, we could pick that information up on our sensors. Compression rifles demand more."
Breheed's eyes narrowed in their protective, bone crevices. "Ship schematics. For battleships as yet unseen by your forces."
"I can get you some of the compression model ones. They're bulky and wide and, to be completely honest, ugly as sin, but they'll clean out a room with one pull of the trigger."
Breheed shook his head. "I have commando troops to take advantage of the riots. I need the current models. The streamlined black ones and the shorter ones that have the foregrip designed for close quarters."
"Breheed, there are Federation outposts without those rifles. What makes you think I can get you..."
"Shield modulation frequencies," he said simply.
Tyre was silent. Well...
"Not for Cardassian, you understand. But for Jem'Hadar ships. Warships. Battleships. Know them and one of your quantum torpedoes could destroy them." Breheed leaned over the table. "You want this?"
Tyre went into the case and withdrew a Mark IV compression rifle. It was the shorter version of the Mark III with a foregrip and a compact bullpup design that made it ideal for starship use. The Enterprise had put these to good use when a small number of crew engaged the Borg on the ships very own deflector array. "Is this what you're interested in?"
Breheed's face broke into a wicked grin.
"I can get you a case of these and a case of the Mark Threes--that's the slightly larger version without the foregrip. I can also get you three cases of the other two designs. Will that wreck enough havoc?"
"When?" Breheed growled eagerly, fondling the rifle. "Where?"
"Tomorrow. Twilight. I should have them by then. I'll send a masked signal with a rendezvous point. Agreed?"
"I will have the information on an encoded isoliner rod. Is that acceptable?"
"Sure," Tyre said.
"You trust me?" Breheed asked. "You have no way of verifying my information and you trust me?"
Tyre shrugged. "Way I see it, by this time tomorrow you'll either be commander of this sector--in which case, I'll have something on you. Or you'll be dead. Either way, if you betray me, my bets are covered." Then he tapped the buckle of his tunic which sent the signal and a moment later, Breheed, his office, the mediocre hasperat, and the cheap table vanished in a transporter cascade.
The ship was a Section 31 CounterIntelPro vessel, which in terms of the average Starfleet layperson, meant it was a Defiant-class warship. Unlike the approximately fifty similar ships slugging it out on the front lines, this one was colored a deep black and had only the barest minimum of running lights. There were no designative numbers or letters on its hull, though someone had mounted a plaque in the ship's mess that read: USS Enigma NCC-XXXX-A. Tyre had learned in his seven years of service with the Section that Black Fleet crews developed a weird sense of humor.
In his spare time, Tyre enjoyed learning about Earth second global conflict and as such likened the interior of the CounterIntelPro ship to the dark, claustrophobic bowels of a German U-Boat. Not too many people got the reference, but he stood by it. The lights were red or off-red or reddish and there were no lifts, only ladders. The whole ship was filled with regular, humming throb, like a great heart on the verge of fibrillations. This, Tyre knew, was the sound of the modified energy-allotment system keeping the ship's energy-signature almost nil. The amplification of the sound through the bulkheads and deckplates had something to do with the specialized cloaking device. Tyre didn't understand the properties of it, but he knew it was nothing like those used by the Klingons or Romulans and would only be mistaken for theirs if the Captain of the vessel wished it.
The cloaking device had been Tyre's initiation into the dead-eyed humor of Fleet crews. It had been his first insurgency mission and he'd been on the bridge when the captain gave the order to cloak. At that, the tactical officer had swiveled in his chair and said with grave earnestness, "Sir, the use of a cloak is prohibited by the Treaty of Algeron and illegal." Tyre's hand had wrapped around the grips of his phaser when the bridge crew--including the tactical officer--cracked up.
"The Admiral wants to talk to you," Quaylo said as Tyre stepped off the transporter pad.
"I'll bet he does."
"On the QT, he thinks you're nuts for wanting that many phaser rifles."
"Then he's gonna be thrilled at what I ask for next." Tyre followed Quaylo out of the transporter room and down a short corridor to the briefing room.
The Admiral was, in fact, quite unhappy with Tyre's latest request, the lines of impatience running through his face were obvious even on the holo-communicator.
"Compact compression rifles? Are you out of your mind, Tyre? I asked you to give the rebels a push in the right direction, not start doling out guns."
"We only need one crate of those," Tyre said, trying to sound reasonable. "One crate of the Mark Threes and then we can be a little less precise with what we give them of the others."
"Why don't we give them a goddamn Nebula Heavy Cruiser while we're at it?"
"The Mycosians can only use surface-based technology," Quaylo said, missing the joke as always.
"My point, Lieutenant Tyre, is that you are promising a huge number of small arms for an insurrection that will happen whether or not we get involved. In my book, that gets filed under 'wasteful.'"
"Respectfully, sir, the Mycosian insurrection isn't terribly important, however Gul Breheed's role in it is."
"Breheed's a fool," The Admiral snorted.
"Well, obviously he's a fool," Tyre said testily. "He leads the Mycosian insurrection, gets them all mown down by Jem'Hadar soldiers and he's a fool. He leads the insurrection, gets them all killed, but only after a protracted and very bloody fight; or, say the impossible happens, he succeeds. Then he is what Starfleet Intelligence calls 'evidence of the rift between Cardassian and Dominion commands.' That's the payoff."
"I still don't see why we need to give them the top-of-the-line stuff."
"Breheed says he can give us shield modulation frequencies for Cardassian warships. If that's true the next major campaign could easily be the one that turns the tide of the war."
"For God's sake! Don't tell me you're believing this swill?"
Tyre made a dismissive gesture. "Of course not. The insurrection happens and everything else is gravy. But if we don't pretend to be interested, Breheed's going to get skittish."
The Admiral seemed to consider this, then leveled his gaze at Quaylo. "Captain, you'll have to break orbit and rendezvous with a supply ship in the Ohalo Sector. Is that possible?"
Quaylo stiffened formally. Tyre knew the Admiral scared the hell out of him. "Yes sir. The current engagements at Vulcan and the Dominion push into Klingon space has nearly emptied this system of warships. There's very little risk if we stay cloaked."
"All right," the Admiral shrugged, "hold your position until you receive the rendezvous coordinates."
"Yes sir," Tyre and Quaylo answered together.
"This thing goes down, I want you out of the system. Understand? Whatever more pressing matters the Dominion has, I doubt they'll still be that pressing when there's an uprising on one of their major supplies of the white."
"Understood," Quaylo nodded.
The Admiral disappeared, leaving Tyre and Quaylo alone.
"Do what you have to do," Tyre told him. "I need to beam down again."
Quaylo narrowed his eyes. "You know how hard it is to beam through a cloak into a specific location on a planet with transport bafflers?"
"I bet it's hard."
"Energy output causes a major spike in our signature. I have to account for every spike. You had your meeting with Breheed, what do I put this one under?"
Tyre half-smiled. "Ancillary Activities."
"Nothing the Admiral has to know about?"
"If it works we can tell him. If it doesn't, what the hell? There'll be enough bodies by tomorrow to cover anything."
Prefect Dakkol was a perfect counterpoint to Breheed--lean, sharp, and angry. He wasn't prone bluster but spoke in fast, concise phrases.
"Twilight? At the changing of guards? I find that unlikely. They'll have twice as many to contend with."
"But they won't be Jem'Hadar," Tyre explained quickly. They were in an alley in the major city and it smelled like sewage. The faster he could get Dakkol to swallow this, the faster he could get the hell out of here. "They'll be Cardassians. One shift tired from working through the night, and one shift groggy from just waking up."
"Faulty logic," Dakkol sniffed arrogantly.
"Maybe. But if your troops get caught unaware, the Jem'Hadar will remove any Cardassian trace from the planet. You know that."
Dakkol stared hard at Tyre. "As do you."
"I never claimed to be an altruist."
The shuttlecraft was painted the dusky yellow of a Cardassian ship and modified to emit an energy signature identical to a Cardassian cargo shuttle. The leader of the Mycosian resistance along with Breheed met Tyre's shuttle in a wide, flat field. Tyre guessed they'd once grown whatever food Mycosians ate here, but now the plants were blighted and being physically choked by some sort of highly aggressive weed.
They tested the weapons on some holo-targets that Breheed provided and were immensely satisfied. The Mycosians had enormous doe-like eyes in their spherical heads. Tyre suspected those heads would make appealing targets for Jem'Hadar disruptors.
"Today is a great day in the history of both our peoples!" Breheed shouted, holding aloft one of the Mark One compression rifles--not the best, Tyre reflected, but the flashiest. Good for rousing the rabble. "Today, we throw off the shackles and take the first strides forward into a new and better future!"
The Mycosians seemed to buy it. They cheered in high trilling voices and waved their long, thin arms. They were going to make great targets, Tyre knew.
Beaming into the Vorta's quarters in the Mycosian Palace wasn't hard to do from the shuttlecraft. From a high atmospheric orbit he'd managed to punch through the Palace's baffles just long enough for Tyre to stow the rifles behind a loose slab of rock in the decorative mural that encompassed two walls. The Mycosians had a great sense of aesthetics, Tyre thought. Too bad they'd been enslaved by two of the only races in galaxy not to understand the concept.
He should have hightailed it to the ship before the fighting broke out, but Tyre had skulked about in a low orbit, practicing his nap-of-the-earth flying. When the fighting broke out, phaser-fire blinking beneath him like the ready lights on a tricorder, he made a low pass over the Eastern wall. Breheed's revolutionaries were swarming the guard towers and protective barriers. Cardassian disrupter fire flashed red, but was easily overshadowed by the strobing, pulsing blue fire from the Starfleet phaser rifles.
Bodies fell like leaves on an autumn day. Some in flames, some billowing smoke from cauterized wounds, some dematerializing so that they were no more than a loose collection of vapors before they hit the ground.
The Jem'Hadar responded by mowing everyone down, and suddenly the multicolored fire was no longer directed at each other, but at them. Lizard-skulled Cardies stood beside fawn-eyed Mycosians and took it out of the Jem'Hadar.
Tyre laughed until he hyperventilated.
The Admiral contacted him when the ship was on the rim of Federation space. He took the holo-meeting alone while Quaylo wove the ship between Dominion support craft.
"Doing a little extra-curricular work, Karl?" The Admiral demanded.
"Some opportunities presented themselves," Tyre shrugged.
"Like Dakkol? You ran his forces into a buzzsaw."
"Figured I'd give Breheed a fighting chance. Fat windbag made a tempting enough target when he wasn't firing a gun."
"I sense there's more to this, Lieutenant," the Admiral arched his eyebrows. "Care to fess up?"
"I planted the samples in their Vorta's quarters. Ordinarily they wouldn't buy it, but after today's massacre--Jem'Hadar soldiers slaughtering Cardassians and the like--Dakkol will be pounce on anything that ties the Vorta to the Federation. And he will be insane enough with rage to believe that the Dominion would collaborate with us just to wipe out a couple garrisons of their soldiers. Or maybe he'll fill in the blanks himself. Weave his own reality out of it."
"And the information Breheed gave us? Ship specs? Shield modulations?"
"We were just going to test that," Tyre said.
They dropped out of warp astern of a Jem'Hadar fighter and decloaked. Quaylo fed the shield modulation frequencies into the fire-control computer at a leisurely pace--letting the fighter raise its shields and come at them on an attack vector.
"Torpedo frequency set to match," the tactical officer announced. "Jem'Hadar light attack craft in this sector: frequency one-seven-eight-three-four-one-seven-two-nine-point-eight-seven."
"Jem'Hadar is firing," the helmsman announced and Tyre grabbed a bulkhead for support. The ship rocked as the viewscreen went blank with the energy of the hit.
"Fire torpedo," Quaylo ordered. When the screen's intensity controls became operable again, they saw a single, red starburst hurtle toward the turtle-shaped craft, then slide effortlessly through the translucent shields and impact the craft's surface. It took less than a minute for the ship to blow itself to pieces.
"One photorp," Quaylo muttered. "Through their shields it should have taken a salvo just to damage them."
"Yep," Tyre said. "Looks like the poor dumb son-of-a-bitch was telling the truth after all."