In other, more comprehensible circumstances, Julian Bashir didn't usually have such difficulty keeping track of time. It was not something he generally liked to advertise - and had discovered long ago that open boasts about his past achievements was a remarkably effective way to keep from having to respond to any awkward questions.
But just occasionally, through the slow, monotonous passage of so many minutes - each one barely different from those that had come before - there were moments when even he would lose his hold. And this, he supposed, was one of those occasions. He held back a sigh, but was far from successful at preventing himself from scratching nervously at one side of his head.
The engines had taken longer than expected to fail, limping forward until the moment when they had taken a final, lurching gasp - and died. The Jem'Hadar's attack had drained their shields to nothing. Warp and impulse engines were worse than useless, and even the ship's internal diagnostics had gone offline to make room for more vital systems. Not that it was likely to make a lot of difference in the end.
At least they still had gravity, and some level of basic life support. That was something - for the moment, anyway. But the only way Bashir could tell for sure was that most loose items remained where they had always been, and that he and Miles still appeared to be taking in air.
Julian's gaze was drawn to a wall at his left, where a nearby light was sputtering deep beneath the fractured surface. Even this grew steadily dimmer with every flicker. It was taunting, fading. Dying, as surely as the engines had died just minutes earlier.
As he stared at the failing ice-blue glow, he imagined that he could even hear the hull plates shift and creak. Almost like the timber of an ancient sailing ship. But then he shook his head at the absurdity of the notion. Nothing. There was nothing left for either of them to hear. He was no longer even certain that the replicators were producing atmosphere for them both to breathe.
He could not help but wonder if it was more than his imagination making the air seem that much thinner than it ought to be. Quietly, attempting discretion, he forced a series of rapid, sucking breaths. But his effort to test the quality of the ventilation did not escape the notice of his friend.
"However long we've got--" Miles O'Brien turned to face him, scowling slightly. "I don't want to know."
Fair enough, thought Julian. He could certainly understand the chief's reluctance to be told. A large part of him was just as unwilling, but there was no way he could stop the same calculations from playing and replaying like a persistent song across his thoughts.
Two hours. Possibly another half, if we're lucky. But not too much further beyond that. Not unless they could find somewhere to stop for more repairs. And Julian was doubtful that they could ever be that lucky twice.
And worse still, he noticed with an unseen shudder. He was fast beginning to feel the cold.
"That's it, then." Chief O'Brien's wary gaze wandered in no particular direction as the last remaining light finally trailed away to nothing. "We're dead in space."
There. He'd said it.
The echo of his words faded to the back of his memory, although a little too slowly for Miles' liking. Of course, he reminded himself, shuddering against the encroaching chill. A sensible man would take the first opportunity he could find, and attempt to launch an emergency subspace beacon, or crouch inside the nearest escape pod, eject it into the lightless void, and pray. Hope that whatever deity was out there would allow them to be rescued before their oxygen supply ran out, or the boredom of close confinement should drive them even further to distraction.
It did not take a lot of thought for Miles to see. There were at least two problems with the choices of a sensible man. The first of these was that distress beacons and escape pods were both among those items he had so far not managed to locate. He was certain - with not even a flicker of doubt - that Federation safety standards would have something to say about this particular oversight. But the second of these problems was that neither he nor his travelling companion was feeling especially sensible at that time.
"Dead in space," he repeated softly. His words hung in the air like the weight of a fog on a windless night. "All adrift and nowhere to go."
"Not for long." Julian's body was far more slender than the chief's. He was already shivering, hunched over as though in the beginnings of a tight, protective crouch. Even then, he forced himself upright on unsteady legs, and stared directly ahead with an expression of cold horror set like plaster across his face. The struggling light was hardly an obstacle to Miles' now too clear view of his companion. And Bashir's face was as drained of colour as Miles imagined his own to be.
"What do you mean?" he hardly dared to ask. "Where would we go, without even working thrusters? How would we…?"
"Gravity." Julian pointed to the viewscreen, where darkness outside now showed the rapidly advancing bulk of a solitary planet. O'Brien saw that the doctor was no longer shivering. "Looks like we've found the Whirlpool."
Sisko was quick to lead the rest of his available senior officers to the bridge. "Report," he barked as soon as the door slid open to allow him inside.
The ensign nodded at an active display screen. "Company," was all she said.
Sisko dropped just as quickly into the centre chair and gazed at the underside of a large bulbous vessel, where it was streaked with lines of neon violet. One ship. If it comes down to it, we can take on one ship. But they won't make it easy.
His stomach sank. He looked to the other side of the screen, at a second identical vessel now drifting into view.
"All stop." As he so often did, he found himself wondering where this low, hushed whisper had come from. It wasn't as if the Jem'Hadar could hear him. Could they? "Go to red alert."
…And if there really had been a need for silence on the bridge, that shrill, repetitive alarm would have put a stop to it in an instant. Why did Starfleet never consider the sanity of its officers when designing those alert protocols, he asked himself, especially at a time when the situation was already this tense?
"And now we wait." But he'd pitched his voice low, to creep like a serpent beneath the surrounding cacophony. This was instinct - the silent, watchful dance of predators. Every twitch could be a prelude to a strike. Gazing intently at the forward-view display, Sisko was glad that at least his ship was hidden.
"Sir. We're being hailed."
"What?"
He hadn't imagined that it could ever be possible, but the young ensign's voice carried an even heftier share of disbelief than his own had done. "They're… They're hailing us, Captain."
Her words were followed by a heavy pause. Sisko felt the deck plates shift beneath him, as abruptly as the sudden shift in his views on reality. A large part of him could almost believe that the floor really had turned to the consistency of warm jelly, far more readily than he could believe that what he saw was really happening. But he hesitated. If only he could bring his own thoughts into line…
"Can't somebody turn that damn siren off?" he came close to bellowing, and the noise obligingly ceased.
"U.S.S. Defiant." As if on cue, a voice reached them over the comm. It was clear, disembodied, deceptively smooth. "I am the Vorta Eiyon. If you drop your cloak and allow me to beam aboard your vessel, I have a proposal to make to you."
"What do we do?" asked Kira, frowning. Sisko noticed that she had also dropped her voice to a whisper.
He thought quickly. "Nothing yet," he decided. "Not until we can be certain as to why they're here, and what they really want."
Kira gasped with barely contained incredulity. "Captain. I think it's pretty obvious what they want from us. Both those ships are full of Jem'Hadar. What do Jem'Hadar ever want?"
But there's still their Vorta. So far, Starfleet had very little experience with these pale, sapphire-eyed strangers. But they knew enough to be sure of one thing. Encounters with the Dominion were always more complicated when a Vorta was involved. The captain did not respond to his first officer's latest outburst, but he continued to stare darkly at the viewscreen, like a cat watching a snake.
"If they had intended to fire on us," Odo asserted, standing rigidly just half a step behind Nerys' right shoulder. "Why have they not already done so? Why hail us instead?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Kira snapped, spinning around to face him and gesticulating so wildly that she very nearly slapped the constable across his chest. "They want us to lower our defences, and give them the first shot. It's a trick!"
"Possible…" conceded Sisko, fingertips stroking the line of his thin, dark beard. "Although…"
But before he could complete this sentiment, the captain found himself interrupted. "U.S.S. Defiant." The same persistent voice cut through all their thoughts. "We have already discovered that you are less than one hundred kilometres from our present position. I feel obligated to inform you that your disguise is not as perfect as you currently assume it to be.
"And now, I see two possible courses open to you, of which I have no doubt you are already aware. Either you can remain in hiding while we run our anti-proton scans - and pinpoint your location in under half an hour. Or you can decloak, and consider giving us an answer to our hails. My personal opinion is that our information would be of far greater use to you with your vessel still intact. Which brings me to the better of your options. I suggest that you accept our offer, and allow us to meet under a banner of truce."