Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Life in the Maquis involves difficult choices. Pre-season 1. Note: I've used the Torres and Chakotay character tags for this piece (because FFN doesn't provide me with the option to tag with 'Maquis'), but, so as not to be misleading, I wish to point out that, although featured, they are not the central characters in this story.
Rating: Rated T. Contains violence, depictions of injury, and mild language.
A/N: I started working on this earlier in the summer. Although I'd just about finished writing it before the VAMB Secret Summer exchange kicked off, it's taken me until now to make the finishing touches. My most grateful thanks to Delwin for her plentiful assistance along the way.
This piece is a prequel of sorts to some of my previous Maquis-focused works, particularly "Rockfall", "Closure", and "Alive."
Judgement
"And you're sure this will work?"
"As sure as I can be without testing it against the most current models of Cardassian military tricorders."
Meyer's question does not indicate a lack of faith in Torres's ingenuity. But, if the success of his imminent mission is to depend on the efficacy of the contents of a small, unremarkable-looking backpack, he wants the engineer's reassurances. In plenty.
He lifts the pack from where it sits on top of an unmarked equipment crate, slips his arms through the straps to test the pack's weight on his shoulders. Satisfied, he removes it, peering then into the unzipped top pocket at the various cylinders bound up within: thoron generators wired up to heavy duty power cells. "But, in all the simulations, it works like a dream, you say?" he asks.
"If it didn't then we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd still be perfecting it."
Meyer's grown accustomed to Torres's bluntness in the short time she's been with the Maquis – he appreciates it, even. It's refreshing to deal with someone so forthright: Torres tells it like it is, with no bullshit. Not like Seska, who always wants to stop and chat, who always inflicts on him a hundred irrelevant questions when he seeks her advice on some technical matter. And not like the other engineers, some of whom seem to worship him like he's some kind of folk hero because he's a veteran – one of the founding members of the resistance group, in fact.
"So, for how long will the power cells last?" Meyer probes. He's alone with Torres in the Val Jean's cramped engineering bay. It's chow time, and most of the rest of the crew are filling their faces with whatever Roberto has rustled up from the last batch of edible supplies they took on board. Chakotay's supposed to be here, but he's been held up dealing with a disciplinary matter: Dalby and Yosa have come to blows again. Something to do with a blocked drain in the ship's one functioning water shower.
Torres checks a readout on the PADD in her hand. "Ten days. Give or take a few hours. I'm sorry I can't be more precise."
Ten days should be more than sufficient given the parameters of Meyer's mission. Long enough to hide him from the Cardassians while he's waiting for his moment to strike, and long enough to cover his withdrawal from the scene. If he's going to make it in one piece to the exfil site he'll need all the help he can get. There'll be fame and fortune for the Cardassian that can take him down.
"You know, I could rig up a second pack and come with you. If we did run into any problems, I could make modifications on the fly." The half-Klingon's tone bubbles with an enthusiasm yet to be broken by long months of combat – by what that does to any sane and decent person. She's endured a few skirmishes in space and has held up well, barring a few small incidents when she's lost her cool with comrades less adept than her at thinking on their feet. But she's been holed up here in engineering during the most frantic actions, focused on power redistribution, on damage control and directing repairs. She's not yet had to make that most transformative of decisions on her own – she's yet to pull the trigger on, or fire a torpedo at, or sink a blade into another sentient being. She's not been that last link between a life and a death, the pivot around which someone's fate has turned.
"I don't think so," Meyer tells her, offering what he hopes comes across as a polite and not a condescending smile. "It's better that I go alone. And you had a hard enough time scraping together the components for one of these kits, didn't you?"
Torres narrows her eyes, hesitates before stating firmly, "I can handle myself out in the wilds if that's what you're worried about. I may not have your experience and I may not have graduated the Academy, but I did pay attention through two semesters of Survival Strategies."
Meyer shakes his head. He's tried to let her down gently, skirting around the most critical detail. But perhaps he should reciprocate her directness. "I don't doubt you could handle the trek from the transport point to the hide site – and make it back to the exfil site – but, no offense, Torres, you're not yet ready for this kind of mission."
Though she looks a little pissed off at that she doesn't press further. Chakotay would never approve of the idea anyway. Torres has already proven how invaluable she is to the Maquis cause. An engineer of her calibre would not be easily replaced. And it's obvious that Chakotay has taken a shine to the young woman on a personal level. He's spent far more time mentoring her than he has other recent recruits, so much so that Seska is beginning to get jealous. The Bajoran is another prime example of Chakotay's favouritism. She always seems to avoid the most perilous away missions. Meyer doesn't know if that's down to Chakotay's reluctance to assign her to them or if she's disinclined to go and he's letting her get her own way. It reflects badly on Chakotay, whatever the case may be.
Footsteps herald the arrival of the Val Jean's captain. Before he even opens his mouth it's obvious that Chakotay is not in the best of moods. Perhaps his meeting with the troublemakers went badly: he's cradling his right hand in his left, rubbing at the knuckles. Or perhaps it's just the fact that, though he knows that it's necessary, Chakotay is exceedingly uncomfortable with Meyer's assignment. Starfleet doesn't approve of assassinations, and enough of the Starfleet officer still survives within Chakotay to cloud the man's judgement. But Gul Zarak needs to die. Not only for what he's already done but for what he will do if given half a chance. What's more, his death will send the Cardassian insurgents in the DMZ an important message. It will hurt their morale. And taking Zarak out via a sniper wielding an old-fashioned projectile rifle should reduce the likelihood of collateral damage. Meyer's methodology is far more precise than the typical Maquis tactics of a planted bomb or a ship-to-ship missile. It makes no sense to Meyer that Chakotay won't blink at blowing a freighter full of weapons into atoms – killing of dozens of crewmen in the process – but he'll argue against the use of snipers to take out single high value and fully culpable targets.
"What have I missed?" Chakotay asks with a sigh. Torres fills him in on the technical specs of the generator rig. The contraption she's built is somewhat weighty, but it's still light enough to be carried by one person for a considerable amount of time. It will create a bubble around its bearer, rendering him or her invisible not only to tricorder scans but to old-fashioned thermographic cameras as well. The basic tech has been used to much success in hiding small groups of Maquis from Federation patrols on various border worlds. Extra power cells and a special carrying rig are not usually required, but Meyer will need to be transported down to the planet several days ahead of Gul Zarak's arrival there. The Cardassians on Anegria are bound to step up security the day before Zarak arrives. They know the Maquis are operating in the area. Meyer's success depends on the Cardassians underestimating how great that threat really is – on them underestimating the determination and audacity of the Maquis.
Chakotay seems somewhat placated – his scowl has morphed into a simple frown as he commends Torres for her work – and he turns to Meyer and asks, "Where's your rifle?"
Meyer reaches down to the dull grey case at his feet, opens it, and lifts out the separate components. He can assemble the rifle in seconds (he's been practising) and he does so now. It's an elegant weapon, a twenty-third-century Bajoran model that he's owned for many years. On his ranch on Iadara he'd used it for hunting sabre cats, ferocious feline predators that were picking off his cattle. That's what the rifle was designed for: pest control. It holds ten projectiles, has automatic wind speed and bullet drop compensation, and, thanks to the fully adjustable scope magnification, an operating range of between one hundred metres and two klicks. Meyer once took out a pair of sabre cats in quick succession, the second as it pawed at the prostrate and bloodied body of its mate. He's never fired this particular weapon against a humanoid before. He knows a shot to anywhere in the head or torso will be instantly lethal: he's seen the exit wounds it makes to more massive animals. Cardassians are much more fragile than sabre cats. Even a shot to a limb will result in major, probably fatal damage.
With Torres looking on with interest, Chakotay examines the assembled weapon, sighs again, and passes it back to Meyer. "Sahreen's making final preparations in the cargo bay. We'll beam the rulot seed over to the shuttle and you can be on your way in an hour."
The shuttle is an old Yridian model that Sahreen has commandeered from a salvage yard on Nivoch. Torres and Bendera have retrofitted it with two stolen Federation phaser banks. The banks are fitted behind retractable gun ports so as not to be obvious to a casual observer. Sahreen will use the shuttle to land Meyer one hundred klicks from Anegria's only settlement and trading post. Then Sahreen, posing as a Dhanaban grain merchant, will land at the settlement on the pretext of trading his wares. Faking a failure of the magnetic spindle bearings in the shuttle's reaction control assembly will give him a reason to linger for a couple of days. At the appropriate time – when Meyer breaks comm silence and calls for extraction – Sahreen will use the same shuttle for Meyer's retrieval. The Val Jean will be hiding in an asteroid field in the next system over: undetectable from Anegria, but close enough to come quickly to Sahreen's aid should that be necessary.
"Is there any agricultural land on Anegria?" Torres asks.
Meyer smirks. "No, and that's a good thing. The Cardassians won't be remotely interested in buying the seed. If they do make an inspection of the cargo they won't check its actual quality, only that it does, in fact, consist of rulot seeds. It's diseased stock. Sahreen procured it from a sympathiser on Deep Space Nine. It gives him a reasonable explanation for visiting the system, but, as the spoonheads won't be interested in buying the seeds, they'll never know it's completely worthless."
When this part of the mission plan was drafted, Seska had suggested they should find Sahreen a cargo that the Cardassians would wish to buy. And poison it. She'd soon backtracked, insisting to Chakotay that she'd spoken impulsively, that she'd never actually condone such an action. And Meyer wouldn't either, not just because pulling off such a scheme would be difficult, but because it would seem to cross a line.
The Bajoran shouldn't have even been present when Chakotay, Ayala, Sahreen and Meyer drafted out the mission plan. These things were supposed to be on a need to know basis, but she'd batted her eyelids and wheedled her way into the cramped captain's cabin, lounging on Chakotay's bed while the men perched on the edge of his desk or found a square of floor space to stand on.
Torres frowns. "And if the Cardassians refuse Sahreen permission to land? What if they want to know the exact details of his cargo before granting him clearance? They'll tell him they're not interested and send him on his way."
"If that happens, Sahreen will say he's in the market for some xupta resin," Meyer explains. "The spoonheads are sitting on tons of the stuff. Literally tons. They'll jump at the chance to make some latinum from it."
"Latinum that Sahreen won't have with him," Chakotay mutters.
Torres is keen to learn about Maquis strategy. That's admirable, but, in this instance, Meyer wishes she'd go back to tinkering with the engines. Reminding Chakotay of all the ways this mission could go awry is not helpful.
"He'll tell the Cardassians he'll come back with the latinum," Meyer says. They've already been through this a dozen times, running through all possible outcomes, making contingencies. Sahreen has the coolest head of anyone Meyer knows: so much so that it's eerie. He can talk his way out of or into most things with most people.
"So, we just have to hope that they don't object to him hanging around to fix the reaction control assembly," Torres says. "Or that they don't have some expert engineer on hand who offers to help."
Meyer starts disassembling his rifle, noting with a sigh that Chakotay is still glaring down at the weapon as if it's a flamethrower or a device to distribute biogenic toxins. "This is the Maquis, Torres," Meyer says. "And it's the best plan that we have."