Duty, Dragons and Dabo.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em; The Blue Goo, Dr Megalomania and Elvis own the Dragons. We're just seeing what happens when you mix Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and our sick twisted minds.
We'd also like to include various TV series and feature films for inspiration.
Author Note's: We'd also like it noted that we own the various red shirted ensigns and would like to assure the reader that *no ensigns were killed in the writing of this story, horribly maimed or transported to another time and place maybe but killed? No!*
//the dragon's thinking/speaking//
Part 7 : When the enemy can't be bothered . . .
Sisko breathe a long sigh and hoped his point had reached home. There was a ponderous moment before anyone spoke. Q was the first to break it.
"You know Jean-Luc was right, you do hyperventilate!"
Odo covered his eyes in exasperation. "Weren't you listening?"
The Dragon nodded solemnly. "I was, and they're right we can't destroy their universe over our petty squabble"
"But wars are fun!" Q wheedled.
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are."
"Look, I'm not going to argue with you anymore. . ."
"But. . ."
"Shush! Maybe we can find another way. If not a war, then something where one can win and you can lose."
"Yeah. . .wait! Who said I was going to lose?"
"Oh, you know you're gonna lose!" the Dragon drew herself to her full height, and peered down at Q. "The question is what are we going to do and whose going to choose?"
Q thought about it, got an idea and materialised a small, round, flat piece of glass. One side had 'Dragon', the other 'Q'. He flipped it and quickly covered it with his hand.
"Ok, result means who chooses. Agreed?" The dragon nodded. Q moved his hand but quickly clamped his hand back. "And it's a game from home universe."
"Yes." She said impatiently.
He moved his hand. Sisko and Odo leaned over the desk to see the result.
Q had won. It was his choice. Q was choosing. Oh no. Not Q!
And so it was.
For once, he considered it seriously. Q was a Joker, an imperious prankster who normally would make it seem, if the circumstances weren't so dire, like they'd have fun.
"Alright, the game is Dabo."
"Okay" the Dragon agreed
"Wait." Odo interjected, "the Dabo table is broken, you'll just have to find something else." For once, Odo was pleased that Quark had come to him about something so trivial. . .
"All right, since your choice is redundant my choice. . .um. . .ah, we can play Mian'tow. . .no, wait we can't."
Q eyed the Dragon, "Why not?"
"Your stupid universe doesn't have any side pull!"
"Ha!" Q clapped "My turn! Okay, We'll play a card game!"
"Picard game?"
"It'll be alright on the night if you play your Picards right!" Q clicked his fingers and a padd appeared. "Here's a copy of the rules for any two player card game we could play."
The dragon looked doubtfully at the padd.
"Hey, I might be a dashing-beyond-all-comparison-unbelievably-powerful- being, but." there was a note of sincerity in Q's voice ". . .I'm not a liar."
The dragon acquiested and took the padd. Q's head jerked as if he had been called. He turned back. "I've got to go. . . the ol' ball and chain's moaning. . ."
Sisko interupted "YOU'RE MARRIED?!?"
Q nodded "yep" he counted off on his fingers, "Ball an' chain, little Q. . ." he beamed the way only a proud father could, "have I told you how smart he is? I've already taught him how knock small planets out of orbit and. . ."
"Q!" A terse female voice sliced into the room. There stood a red haired woman and a small boy. The 'ol' ball and an' chain and little Q it would seem.
The boy walked toward the Dragon, the woman turned her attention to the boy. "Q!" the boy stopped and turned to the woman. She continued "both of you, we have to go." And with that was gone. The boy and his father both let out a heavy sigh. Q clicked his finger and both disappeared.
Q's disembodied voice echoed through the room. "I'll be back!"
The dragon nodded and toddled somewhat awkwardly out of the room. Odo looked to Sisko, Sisko to Odo, both stared at the door.
"That was. . .strange" Said Sisko.
"To say the least. . ." Odo huffed.
O' Brien and Bashir were enjoying both a game of darts, and front-row seats at the spectacle of a Dragon and a faulty set of Dabo tables driving away most of the customers. A quick look over her shoulder showed her to be studying the rules of the complex card game.
Squinted in concentration as he aimed for the board - then let out a 'hah!' of satisfaction as the streamlined arrow pierced the board.
"Beat that one, Julian-" No answer. O'Brien turned to see Bashir, who was staring thoughtfully over his shoulder at the Dragon. Again.
"Julian - is everything all right?"
"What? Yes? Oh, sorry Chief. I was just thinking-"
The Irish engineer was unimpressed.
"Keep your mind on the game, Julian. I mean, its not as if this is the only alien species we've ever seen."
"Yes, but its totally unlike any of the variations I've studied: its genotype - it doesn't even have a genotype."
O'Brien looked upward. Not for long, though, as his attention returned to the dysfunctional tables and he nudged his companion. Once again a victorious cry of "DABO!" resounded around the bar
They shared a conspiratorial grin.
"I won't tell if you won't."
It was at that moment their other, non-draconic visitor, escorted by an unusually harried-looking Dax, entered the scene. Of itself, the normally elegant trill's discomposure should have forewarned them - it was a sign of definite anxiety that she wore a slight pensive frown when she scanned the room and spotted them.
The two headed straight for them, which would under normal circumstances have been welcome, at least by the doctor, but even from here, in the inordinately quiet premises, they could hear the incessant babble of a neurotic starship pilot increasing in volume proportional to their proximity.
The stocky engineer backed off a little and cleared his throat:
"Well, I'd better be off. Needs some modifications made to the environmental systems. I'll - er - see you later."
"Ah, Julian."
He considered whether to be flattered or afraid that Dax seemed strangely pleased to see him, until her unfeigned smile of relief decided for him.
"Beria - this is our chief medical officer, Julian Bashir." Another smile, one he returned, one accompanied with a comprehensive 'sit-down' gesture and a clever about-face. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about after your research into in the outpost. . ."
Before he knew it, his long-time associate had discreetly left him with the walking Dictaphone.
Beria beamed at him.
"Oh its s-s-so good to see a f-fellow s-s-scien--, I mean, scientist in the same profession! I've read all about the processes, of, um, genetic e- engineering- this is, well, its an honour to, um . . .!"
Long after his eyes had glazed over and his throat was working awkwardly to insert a sensible excuse into the monologue, Dax came back to rescue him.
In much the same tone as she had used earlier, Bashir laughed weakly
"Oh, Jadzia. . . can I have a word with you for a moment? Excuse me." That last to Beria, causing his idiotic grin to widen still further. It wasn't that his speech impediment and the hesitations were so bad, he reflected. It was just that. . . well, the sheer energy of enthusiasm drained any onlooker of all his strength, out of sheer disbelief and fear for his sanity. That much unwarranted zeal in one person was practically dangerous, and as such, Bashir toyed with the idea of recommending Beria was restricted to quarters. . . purely for health reasons, of course.
He suggested this to Dax, who merely sent him one of those dazzling grins.
"Oh, I thought you were handling him rather well. . . but, about Beria. . . there's something about Worf and I-"
That was as far as she got, because a miniature earthquake staggered them both - it lasted only a second, and by that time they were clutching the rim of the nearest respective tabletops to keep their balance, and glancing around for the source of the disturbance. They weren't the only ones. Out near the bar, a certain barkeep let out a squawk of dismay at possibly the worst disaster in trade to strike him since the Occupation.
:-//Don't you guys ever get to finish a thought around here?// The dragon slided away from the bar straight in to the faulty Dabo table.
That did it; earthquakes, Dragons, security officers and faulty tables. When Quark died, which would be soon judging by that shockwave, he was going to file a formal complaint against the divine treasury.
For her part, the Dragon stumbled, almost knocked over her escort - again - and yelped:
:-//Wow! Brilliant! What was that?//
Good grief, she was almost as bad as-
Wait. What had happened to Beria?
In the confusion of shattering glasses and varicoloured fluids toppling to the floor, an ideal mask for a getaway was presented. Beria had vanished.
Dax tapped her combadge: "Ops, what's going on?"
Major Kira's voice, sounding frustrated in the background of fizzing apparatus and computer systems, could give her no information - but whatever the origins of the blast, it had temporarily disabled their sensors: all of them, the huge and almost incalculable array that the station was equipped with - and her inquiry was not helped by the increasingly hysterical voice of Quark, demanding an explanation behind her.
Until forcibly removed by Odo, that is.
Meanwhile, the doctor was searching for any casualties with endearing assiduity - encountering only a couple of bruised arms, nothing more serious according to his tricorder - at least not with his biological patients. Unfortunately, his instrumentation had fared less well and the readings were behaving rather erratically. He dearly wished to know what was going on.
Unfortunately. . .
It was probably just as well that the Dragon alerted them to yet another problem - or a related one - they had unwittingly taken on board. Literally.
:- //Where'd the fella' with two minds go? You know, the one the vet was talking to?//
Bashir mustered some indignation at being called a vet, until the statement sank in.
"What do you mean?" the rough voice of Odo interjected.
:-// Oh *you* know, the one whose. . . hmm, I just noticed - same species as you, only with another guy underneath, kinda. And the one underneath's a different species. Like I said, two minds . . . well, okay, maybe not exactly two minds, but gimme a chance with the metaphor, okay, and-
-uh: is that a problem?//
"Like me?"
They were in trouble. *No wait* Odo corrected himself.
They were in deep trouble.
It was an ingenious way to fool the DNA screening process, but that was a kind of ingenuity they all could have done without. Of course they had safeguards against changeling infiltration. The blood test was a reasonably reliable way of exposing them - so what better way to render it useless than by presenting the test with actual non-shapeshifter genetic material, whilst hiding somewhere on that person? They must have done something with the shields to mask the extra lifesigns - like killed the unfortunate host - or something.
It occurred to Dax, Bashir and Odo, that it might be a bad idea to take anything the perpetually hyperactive Dragon said as fact. But on the other hand, coupling a possible infiltration with the recent tremor, conclusions had to be hastily reached - and transmitted to Ops.
"Kira - we have a possible intruder- Beria. We think he might be a changeling."
It was at that moment confirmation was reached as another voice entered the fray:
"O'Brien here."
"Wait a minute Dax: go ahead chief."
"We have a problem down here - somebody's been tampering with the environmental controls and systems. That could have a few repercussions up there."
Bashir chimed in: "Sabotage?"
"Sabotage? That's a bit of a hasty conclusion to reach, isn't it?"
Kira again: "No- chief, look, you'd better get up here, Dax had better explain what is going on and we need those systems back online!"
Belatedly, much, much too belatedly, the trill science officer identified exactly what had been bothering her about the garrulous passenger of 'the explorer'. . . besides the obvious. She made a sharp move of realisation with her hand.
"Of course - he's dead!"
"Dead? Who's dead? Don't be ridiculous, how can he be dead when he's running around in the propul-. . . oh."
"I mean, Beria died a few years ago - I knew there was something bothering me."
A palpable influx of unvoiced, sardonic comments rent the air.
And one not-so-sardonic one that they all ignored:
://You mean he's a zombie?//
"Why couldn't you have realised that before?"
Dax pulled a face and mumbled "Well, y'know it's kinda hard to keep you with seven lifetimes. . ."
A momentary pause, as various courses of action were worked out and he continued: "Security will have to be diverted into finding this 'intruder'."
"I'll go back to and see if I can come up with something to test him when we do, shall I?"
"Good idea. . . er, Dragon? You're with me, back to Ops again - Sisko still wants to see you, so this should kill two birds with one stone.
:- //Birds? BIRDS? Does this mean I get to fly?//
"We really need to introduce you to the holosuite," murmured Dax as they headed off. Quickly. But not quickly enough, because as they were moving. . .
WHAAMM!
Another earthquake, at least twice as high on the ritcher scale as its predecessor - yells of alarm were cut off as people hit the deck, the table, or the nearest obstacle - Dax spun round and grabbed the nearest doorway, clinging equally strongly to the wish that the Dragon would retain her tenuous balance. She wasn't the only one having difficulties, as somebody encountered a console - decorating its surroundings with white-hot sparks - the hard way, when the momentum generated by blast hurled him over the top.
This time there was no mistaking the signature of weapons-fire.
"Report!"
Something was wrong with the lights, throwing the nerve-centre of the station into a dismal gloom punctuated by faint clouds of anaerobic gas and budding fires.
From a voice unmistakeably deeper than Kira's, which meant Sisko was on the bridge, shouting commands above the hiss of said fire-extinguishing measures. The power of the pulse was unprecedented, for the damage inflicted on the station wasn't simply the result of any single shot - a multiple barrage had struck it simultaneously, in assorted areas. Sisko only hoped life-support was still functioning - evacuating the station to flee before an unknown enemy was not a good strategy.
"O'Brien! What is going on?"
"I'm on it. . ." a second of tinkering and re-routing "That should do the trick - we've got partial sensors back again."
Finally, his efforts paid off - and everyone was left thinking, with the possible exception of the Dragon, that this was either a really bad dream, a really bad hallucination, a really bad simulation. . . or just another day facing impossible odds on Deep Space nine.
"Where in the quadrant did they come from!?"
The answer to Kira's shout was obvious.
"The wormhole. They somehow managed, to get through the wormhole."
An entire fleet of Dominion ships, to be exact.
"Benjamin, how could they get through?"
"I don't know, but that isn't the issue right now." He stared at the viewscreen, nostrils flared as if sheer unblinking helplessness and a large portion of equally helpless rage could drive them off. What had happened? If the failsafe of the wormhole had been breached, then they could count their days as residents of the alpha quadrant on the fingers of one humanoid hand.
And, just what they didn't need, although it wouldn't make much difference to the outcome of the commencing battle, they got another distraction curtesy of Beria.
". . . Y-Y-Yaaaaah!"
In a creditable display of athleticism, Beria hurdled the nearest console before colliding with one of the pursuind security officers. To be correct, Beria wasn't precisely Beria anymore but two separate entities, neither of whom looked like him, and only one of whom was at this moment stomping over the control panels with a grim-faced security officer on his tail.
And, as if things needed to be livened up, half the station's systems were off-line thanks to 'Beria's' undercover ministrations, with most of remainder discharging electricity into the atmosphere or the nearest innocent bystander.
Which was why, when Sisko found himself one moment in Ops on Deep Space Nine and the next in a poor, slightly blurry and foggy, rendition of Quark's bar, without having taken a step. Having realised what the misty atmosphere and the eerie mystical music was precluding to, he shouted:
"I don't have time for this! Put me back!"
It was, of course, vision from the Prophets - or wormhole aliens, depending on your point of view.
Since Sisko's point of view was, at this particular moment, on top of a Dabo table whilst elsewhere his station was disintegrating under the assault of however many hundred enemy vessels were surrounding it, he was understandable seething with frustration.
There was a subtle difference, however between this vision and the others Sisko, as the Emissary, had received: for once, the scenario granted him was totally depopulated. Nobody in sight. As the Prophets to communicate, generally manifested as people he knew, this was decidedly unusual.
In fact, the only sign of life was a sort of background humming noise that didn't fit in with the eerie music.
As Sisko concentrated on the discording hum, it rewarded him by seemingly increasing it volume.
". . . please stand by. . . we are experiencing some minor technical difficulties right now. . . services will resume shortly. . . please stand by. . ." Repeated a smooth female voice.
Sisko stained to hear another voice which sounded sufficiently irritated, he didn't interpret the infuriatingly vague information, although he did catch something that sounded like 'Bloody Y2K bug' and 'you'd think the mee- len-nee-um bug would happen *on* the millennium but nooo!'.
The interlude abruptly ended, he found himself looking at the ceiling and several members of his crew and the disturbingly close sharp teeth of the dragon - apparently that was because he was flat on his back, having collapsed during the episode. As he crawled on to his feet, he absently noted that someone had missed a patch on the ceiling.
The Prophets were 'experiencing some minor technical difficulties'.
Minor technical difficulties?
*Minor technical difficulties?!*
If time wasn't linear, and, as the Prophets so often claimed, they knew all about the timeline past, present and future, why hadn't they foreseen *this*?
More to the point, how, lacking a prophet-given miracle, were they going to repel this kind of force? For that matter, why hadn't they already been obliterated into particles smaller than a subatomic photon?
A subatomic photon, that doesn't even exist.
Could this assault be some kind of hologram?
"Chief, can you scan the ships for any kind of holographic energy?"
"I'm on it, commander."
O'brien was still scanning when the assault suddenly cease. Everybody was desperately thinking up long strings of scientific jargon; in the hopes of formulating from it, the usual sort of delusional, risky, insane idea that would help extricate them from this mess, when the viewscreen blipped, bubbled and burbled into life.
They were facing a very strange-looking Weyoun-type clone.
Not that he was physically any different from the rest of his clones - well, they were supposed to be identical, weren't they? - But he was dressed entirely in black, was staring disconsolately at the screen, and was making, totally out of character with his fellow clones, no effort to gloat.
The silence of Ops was disturbed by the struggling mass of security officers and their prisoner that spilled out of the turbolift. They came to a halt, where; on closer inspection, showed another made-up Weyoun with what looked like a wig and costume from some sort of ancient earth-history period drama, being restrained on the floor by a team of desperate security officers. Having formerly been known as 'Beria', he wrenched his head around to grin excitedly up at the screen.
"H-h-hi, how're you doing - th-this incredible, I a-actually got cap-capt - taken by the enemy! Is-isn't this brill-l-liant?" he babbled. His excitement was obviously affecting his speech centre.
The depressed-looking Vorta sniffed and made a half-hearted attempt at lifting his hand. Too great for him, the effort subsided.
"Uh."
"Oh, it l-l-looks like you're in need of a-aliittle cheering up. . ."
His sour-faced counterpart made a face, as if he knew what was coming, "No. . . it dosen't"
'Beria' smiled knowingly "Oh. . . yes, you do!"
The Vorta scowled at him, sarcastically mimicking "Oh. . . no, I don't"
"I know exactly what you need, some warm milk and cookies and a good ol' fashion hug. . ."
He walked up to a nearby console that held an image of his moaning look- alike, and hugged it.
People glanced back and forth between the obviously mentally unbalanced aliens like spectators in a tennis match. The bewildered security officers were shrugging in consternation.
Kira, however, was in favor of direct action and mimed tying a gag round the talkative mouth - or was that neck? - in the background, but, on the other hand , if keeping the deranged euphoric Vorta babbling on at the screen was the only thing preventing his mournful equal from firing on the station further, then it was a decidedly good thing. . .
It wasn't.
The black-clad Vorta manage to summon the energy to turn and face the Ops crew fully. His dejected expression complemented his mourning robes perfectly.
Garak, their resident tailor-cum-Obsidian-order-outcast, would have been impressed.
He arched an eyebrow and said, "Please. Shut him up. I don't care how you do it. Just make it happen."
It wasn't Federation policy to comply with the enemy, but in this case, well, this overly joyful Vorta would tax a Bolian's patience.
As nonplussed as the others by the exchange, the dragon seemed inclined to intervene.
"//Ahem. Allow me.//"
And by whatever trick of manipulation of the space-time continuum, she transported the manic vorta on Ops directly to the brig, much to the relief of the harassed security officers, and the surprise to his cell-mates.
By now, Worf, disgruntled and tight-lipped at the best of times, was reaching his own breaking point. "What is the point of this communication? We are *supposed* to be at war!"
Even a furious Klingon wasn't going to get an intelligent response from the Vorta, who, now that his hyper opposite had been dispatched, had presently used up his supply of enthusiastic monosyllables for the day.
"Uh. Whatever"
Incredulously, Sisko asked "Are you meant to be negotiating some kind of treaty with the Federation?"
It seemed as though the Vorta was going to ignore him, instead he thought for a moment before replying. "You know, I really can't be bothered to distroy you, I mean that requies me to give orders and that requires me to give some sort of effort. I've had a really bad. . . however long it was we were stuck in that. . . tunnel thingy. . . you know, the big blue thing. . . and I have to put up with *him* all the time" He sighed, heavily. "I just really can't be . . ." He trailed off and closed his eyes briefly before resuming. ". . . but since you insist. . ." he raise his hands in a pathetic gesture of menace "Agh. . . we *are* evil. *Evil*. . . like. . . *really* evil, *bad* . . . people. . . and we are gonna. . . *evilly*. . . be---"
At this point, a grey, slightly scaly-looking hand snagged the depressing spokesman by the neck of his black cloak and yanked him off the screen. "Whoa!"
He was replaced by a distinctly sheepish-looking Jem'hadar first.
"We'll be right back in just a second!" He forced a grin and cut the transmisson.
Meanwhile they had a shapeshifter to deal with.
Odo was checking Quark's bar to that effect: he hadn't spotted anything out of place but that didn't tell him anything he wanted to know except that the infiltrator knew how to imitate an bottle of alcohol. Maybe not a bottle, because the floor here was still canted at an angle and the gravity here was skewed, risking any nearby bottle to be smashed into smithereens. It was quite a health hazard for passer-bys; a single shot in this environment and you'd have to take cover under the closest table to dodge the
unidentifiable flying condiments. And at any moment, they might all cease to exist anyway, vaporised by a volley from the enemy.
Of course, Odo thought to himself, the upside being Quark was going to have to spend a *really* long time cleaning up his premises. That should prevent him from getting embroiled with any other criminal activities for a while. Odo indulged himself in a small smile, before he set upon the task of seeking out his target.
At first, what had happened involved staring at the viewscreen at the Vorta again, who had resumed his conversation. Such as it was.
As usual, O'Brien was working frantically to divert all power to the weapons array, but it was going to take some time to re-route all the jumbled systems. It looked like 'Beria' had tried to arrange the files so they spelled the anagram: 'Hello! Greetings from your friendly neighbourhood conqueror.'- and then run out of time. He hadn't done a very good job either, because it actually spelt: 'H-hi! Fello feet goers ring on our only nerdquery or dig. com, ooh!'
By this time, Dax had joined O'Brien at the console, while Sisko was shouting for reports down the comline.
The Jem'Hadar warriors had evidently abandoned trying to give their unhinged Vorta a pep-talk and were shrugging at each other in the background, which they had been doing for about five minutes before the Vorta actually slumped back into action again.
"Oh. You're still here. Well I'm not going to fire. . . I never wanted to be the right hand man of the most evil species from the Gamma Quadrant who want to take over all of the alpha-quadrant and turn its populace into their slaves anyway. I always wanted to be a lumberjack. . ."
They didn't seem to be in immediate danger.
Kira turned to Worf. "If we can keep him from firing on us we can get reinforcements here in time."
But Worf was baffled. "Why is he not fighting us?"
"Just keep him talking! We have to try and get a message through."
It was probably not the most intelligent option to assign Worf the task of conversationalist. Not that he couldn't improvise one when he wanted, but. . .
Kira got to work on the communications systems. They were being jammed, as expected, but if she could somehow penetrate the jamming frequencies and launch a message into subspace, then they could get help. But before she could begin, another comlink blinked at her.
"Security to Ops." The first thing she noticed was the panicked tone of address. Had half the prisoners broken out of their holding cells after Beria's little stunt with the DS9's controls? That was all they needed.
"Go ahead."
A fuzzy visual appeared on the console.
"We need backup!"
"Backup? What happened?"
"It's the prisoner! He's talking us to death!"
In the background, sure enough, babbled the relentless yammering of the criminally insane Beria. A conduit blew its fuse on the walls, silhouetting the speaker against a radiant waterfall of malfunctioning equipment and there was a sound of creaking as a strut near the wall gravitated away from its moorings.
"We're losing structural integrity down here! Its- its Beria - he's unstoppable!"
Abruptly, the link cut out.
With a flash of inspiration, Major Kira contacted sickbay. If the worst came to the worst, they could always get a science officer to soundproof the walls, or Bashir to use ventilation to send some airborn anaesthetic into the cells, although he might protest against the ethics and risks of gassing the prisoners' different physiologies. Meanwhile, they had to get some more information on Beria's. . . whatever you called it. Their SOS to Starfleet would have to wait in the hands of the anonymous, interchangeable ensigns who appeared so conveniently on request to carry out weird and wonderful orders. Strangely enough, however, there had been a shortage of them lately . . . so she had to leave it with Nog, who was frantically working at a station the other side of Ops, and was probably making the situation worse.
Kira returned to Worf's station, hoping against hope that some sort of level of reasonable discussion had been reached between them. It was a vain hope: their communication had degenerated into a staring contest which Worf was winning, mainly because the apathetic Vorta hadn't summoned the energy not to blink every few seconds. Kira respected the Klingon as a fine example of a tactical officer, but very occasionally his Klingon impulses got the better of him.
"Hah! You are a coward! There is no honour in surrounding a helpless enemy!"
The Vorta pouted, at the same time managing to look utterly disconsolate.
"Oh. well. I'm not particularly bothered. But I can't be stuffed to argue with you." He sighed, gathering his energies. "Fire."
And that was why everybody had to cling to the nearest solid object as DS9 was once more subjected to the punishing blasts.
://-Worf, what were you thinking?//. The Dragon looked at the Klingon with confusion. The crew didn't want to be fired upon yet they'd allowed this man to goad the apathy-loving vorta into attacking.
Despite the fact that everybody else in Ops was either panicking or unconscious, or possibly both, the dragon shook her head slowly from side to side, tutting in resigned amusement. Amusement that was quickly supplanted with surprise, then an evil grin, which was made all the more intimidating by that overgrown dentition.
:- //Ooh! Gotta go! Q's back!//
Nog ran after the dragon in protest, gesticulating wildly.
Which left Sisko and the others to cope with their impending destruction. It had not been a good day.
Some poor red shirted ensign hurtled into him with confused intent halfway across the promenade, after yet another barrage of enemy fire. And then hurtled right through him with a yelp of extreme surprise, as Odo had altered his physical composition to prevent himself from being splattered by some flying debris.
Unfortunately this did nothing to help the ensign as he crashed into the wall behind them and ricocheted off like a steel bearing in some huge pinball machine.
It seemed that every time the station deck shook from the weapons fire, there were more people playing dodge ball.
Then, something caught his attention. His first thought was that he had seen a) someone he'd arrested, i.e. Quark, or b) Kira, but no. The unusual detail he picked up on was that there was someone rushing on the promenade in the complete opposite direction of the crowd, and he didn't seem to be losing his balance and staggering like a drunkard every few seconds. Magnetised boots? Someone with an obscure mental ability that allowed them to levitate?
Or .
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em; The Blue Goo, Dr Megalomania and Elvis own the Dragons. We're just seeing what happens when you mix Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and our sick twisted minds.
We'd also like to include various TV series and feature films for inspiration.
Author Note's: We'd also like it noted that we own the various red shirted ensigns and would like to assure the reader that *no ensigns were killed in the writing of this story, horribly maimed or transported to another time and place maybe but killed? No!*
//the dragon's thinking/speaking//
Part 7 : When the enemy can't be bothered . . .
Sisko breathe a long sigh and hoped his point had reached home. There was a ponderous moment before anyone spoke. Q was the first to break it.
"You know Jean-Luc was right, you do hyperventilate!"
Odo covered his eyes in exasperation. "Weren't you listening?"
The Dragon nodded solemnly. "I was, and they're right we can't destroy their universe over our petty squabble"
"But wars are fun!" Q wheedled.
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are."
"Look, I'm not going to argue with you anymore. . ."
"But. . ."
"Shush! Maybe we can find another way. If not a war, then something where one can win and you can lose."
"Yeah. . .wait! Who said I was going to lose?"
"Oh, you know you're gonna lose!" the Dragon drew herself to her full height, and peered down at Q. "The question is what are we going to do and whose going to choose?"
Q thought about it, got an idea and materialised a small, round, flat piece of glass. One side had 'Dragon', the other 'Q'. He flipped it and quickly covered it with his hand.
"Ok, result means who chooses. Agreed?" The dragon nodded. Q moved his hand but quickly clamped his hand back. "And it's a game from home universe."
"Yes." She said impatiently.
He moved his hand. Sisko and Odo leaned over the desk to see the result.
Q had won. It was his choice. Q was choosing. Oh no. Not Q!
And so it was.
For once, he considered it seriously. Q was a Joker, an imperious prankster who normally would make it seem, if the circumstances weren't so dire, like they'd have fun.
"Alright, the game is Dabo."
"Okay" the Dragon agreed
"Wait." Odo interjected, "the Dabo table is broken, you'll just have to find something else." For once, Odo was pleased that Quark had come to him about something so trivial. . .
"All right, since your choice is redundant my choice. . .um. . .ah, we can play Mian'tow. . .no, wait we can't."
Q eyed the Dragon, "Why not?"
"Your stupid universe doesn't have any side pull!"
"Ha!" Q clapped "My turn! Okay, We'll play a card game!"
"Picard game?"
"It'll be alright on the night if you play your Picards right!" Q clicked his fingers and a padd appeared. "Here's a copy of the rules for any two player card game we could play."
The dragon looked doubtfully at the padd.
"Hey, I might be a dashing-beyond-all-comparison-unbelievably-powerful- being, but." there was a note of sincerity in Q's voice ". . .I'm not a liar."
The dragon acquiested and took the padd. Q's head jerked as if he had been called. He turned back. "I've got to go. . . the ol' ball and chain's moaning. . ."
Sisko interupted "YOU'RE MARRIED?!?"
Q nodded "yep" he counted off on his fingers, "Ball an' chain, little Q. . ." he beamed the way only a proud father could, "have I told you how smart he is? I've already taught him how knock small planets out of orbit and. . ."
"Q!" A terse female voice sliced into the room. There stood a red haired woman and a small boy. The 'ol' ball and an' chain and little Q it would seem.
The boy walked toward the Dragon, the woman turned her attention to the boy. "Q!" the boy stopped and turned to the woman. She continued "both of you, we have to go." And with that was gone. The boy and his father both let out a heavy sigh. Q clicked his finger and both disappeared.
Q's disembodied voice echoed through the room. "I'll be back!"
The dragon nodded and toddled somewhat awkwardly out of the room. Odo looked to Sisko, Sisko to Odo, both stared at the door.
"That was. . .strange" Said Sisko.
"To say the least. . ." Odo huffed.
O' Brien and Bashir were enjoying both a game of darts, and front-row seats at the spectacle of a Dragon and a faulty set of Dabo tables driving away most of the customers. A quick look over her shoulder showed her to be studying the rules of the complex card game.
Squinted in concentration as he aimed for the board - then let out a 'hah!' of satisfaction as the streamlined arrow pierced the board.
"Beat that one, Julian-" No answer. O'Brien turned to see Bashir, who was staring thoughtfully over his shoulder at the Dragon. Again.
"Julian - is everything all right?"
"What? Yes? Oh, sorry Chief. I was just thinking-"
The Irish engineer was unimpressed.
"Keep your mind on the game, Julian. I mean, its not as if this is the only alien species we've ever seen."
"Yes, but its totally unlike any of the variations I've studied: its genotype - it doesn't even have a genotype."
O'Brien looked upward. Not for long, though, as his attention returned to the dysfunctional tables and he nudged his companion. Once again a victorious cry of "DABO!" resounded around the bar
They shared a conspiratorial grin.
"I won't tell if you won't."
It was at that moment their other, non-draconic visitor, escorted by an unusually harried-looking Dax, entered the scene. Of itself, the normally elegant trill's discomposure should have forewarned them - it was a sign of definite anxiety that she wore a slight pensive frown when she scanned the room and spotted them.
The two headed straight for them, which would under normal circumstances have been welcome, at least by the doctor, but even from here, in the inordinately quiet premises, they could hear the incessant babble of a neurotic starship pilot increasing in volume proportional to their proximity.
The stocky engineer backed off a little and cleared his throat:
"Well, I'd better be off. Needs some modifications made to the environmental systems. I'll - er - see you later."
"Ah, Julian."
He considered whether to be flattered or afraid that Dax seemed strangely pleased to see him, until her unfeigned smile of relief decided for him.
"Beria - this is our chief medical officer, Julian Bashir." Another smile, one he returned, one accompanied with a comprehensive 'sit-down' gesture and a clever about-face. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about after your research into in the outpost. . ."
Before he knew it, his long-time associate had discreetly left him with the walking Dictaphone.
Beria beamed at him.
"Oh its s-s-so good to see a f-fellow s-s-scien--, I mean, scientist in the same profession! I've read all about the processes, of, um, genetic e- engineering- this is, well, its an honour to, um . . .!"
Long after his eyes had glazed over and his throat was working awkwardly to insert a sensible excuse into the monologue, Dax came back to rescue him.
In much the same tone as she had used earlier, Bashir laughed weakly
"Oh, Jadzia. . . can I have a word with you for a moment? Excuse me." That last to Beria, causing his idiotic grin to widen still further. It wasn't that his speech impediment and the hesitations were so bad, he reflected. It was just that. . . well, the sheer energy of enthusiasm drained any onlooker of all his strength, out of sheer disbelief and fear for his sanity. That much unwarranted zeal in one person was practically dangerous, and as such, Bashir toyed with the idea of recommending Beria was restricted to quarters. . . purely for health reasons, of course.
He suggested this to Dax, who merely sent him one of those dazzling grins.
"Oh, I thought you were handling him rather well. . . but, about Beria. . . there's something about Worf and I-"
That was as far as she got, because a miniature earthquake staggered them both - it lasted only a second, and by that time they were clutching the rim of the nearest respective tabletops to keep their balance, and glancing around for the source of the disturbance. They weren't the only ones. Out near the bar, a certain barkeep let out a squawk of dismay at possibly the worst disaster in trade to strike him since the Occupation.
:-//Don't you guys ever get to finish a thought around here?// The dragon slided away from the bar straight in to the faulty Dabo table.
That did it; earthquakes, Dragons, security officers and faulty tables. When Quark died, which would be soon judging by that shockwave, he was going to file a formal complaint against the divine treasury.
For her part, the Dragon stumbled, almost knocked over her escort - again - and yelped:
:-//Wow! Brilliant! What was that?//
Good grief, she was almost as bad as-
Wait. What had happened to Beria?
In the confusion of shattering glasses and varicoloured fluids toppling to the floor, an ideal mask for a getaway was presented. Beria had vanished.
Dax tapped her combadge: "Ops, what's going on?"
Major Kira's voice, sounding frustrated in the background of fizzing apparatus and computer systems, could give her no information - but whatever the origins of the blast, it had temporarily disabled their sensors: all of them, the huge and almost incalculable array that the station was equipped with - and her inquiry was not helped by the increasingly hysterical voice of Quark, demanding an explanation behind her.
Until forcibly removed by Odo, that is.
Meanwhile, the doctor was searching for any casualties with endearing assiduity - encountering only a couple of bruised arms, nothing more serious according to his tricorder - at least not with his biological patients. Unfortunately, his instrumentation had fared less well and the readings were behaving rather erratically. He dearly wished to know what was going on.
Unfortunately. . .
It was probably just as well that the Dragon alerted them to yet another problem - or a related one - they had unwittingly taken on board. Literally.
:- //Where'd the fella' with two minds go? You know, the one the vet was talking to?//
Bashir mustered some indignation at being called a vet, until the statement sank in.
"What do you mean?" the rough voice of Odo interjected.
:-// Oh *you* know, the one whose. . . hmm, I just noticed - same species as you, only with another guy underneath, kinda. And the one underneath's a different species. Like I said, two minds . . . well, okay, maybe not exactly two minds, but gimme a chance with the metaphor, okay, and-
-uh: is that a problem?//
"Like me?"
They were in trouble. *No wait* Odo corrected himself.
They were in deep trouble.
It was an ingenious way to fool the DNA screening process, but that was a kind of ingenuity they all could have done without. Of course they had safeguards against changeling infiltration. The blood test was a reasonably reliable way of exposing them - so what better way to render it useless than by presenting the test with actual non-shapeshifter genetic material, whilst hiding somewhere on that person? They must have done something with the shields to mask the extra lifesigns - like killed the unfortunate host - or something.
It occurred to Dax, Bashir and Odo, that it might be a bad idea to take anything the perpetually hyperactive Dragon said as fact. But on the other hand, coupling a possible infiltration with the recent tremor, conclusions had to be hastily reached - and transmitted to Ops.
"Kira - we have a possible intruder- Beria. We think he might be a changeling."
It was at that moment confirmation was reached as another voice entered the fray:
"O'Brien here."
"Wait a minute Dax: go ahead chief."
"We have a problem down here - somebody's been tampering with the environmental controls and systems. That could have a few repercussions up there."
Bashir chimed in: "Sabotage?"
"Sabotage? That's a bit of a hasty conclusion to reach, isn't it?"
Kira again: "No- chief, look, you'd better get up here, Dax had better explain what is going on and we need those systems back online!"
Belatedly, much, much too belatedly, the trill science officer identified exactly what had been bothering her about the garrulous passenger of 'the explorer'. . . besides the obvious. She made a sharp move of realisation with her hand.
"Of course - he's dead!"
"Dead? Who's dead? Don't be ridiculous, how can he be dead when he's running around in the propul-. . . oh."
"I mean, Beria died a few years ago - I knew there was something bothering me."
A palpable influx of unvoiced, sardonic comments rent the air.
And one not-so-sardonic one that they all ignored:
://You mean he's a zombie?//
"Why couldn't you have realised that before?"
Dax pulled a face and mumbled "Well, y'know it's kinda hard to keep you with seven lifetimes. . ."
A momentary pause, as various courses of action were worked out and he continued: "Security will have to be diverted into finding this 'intruder'."
"I'll go back to and see if I can come up with something to test him when we do, shall I?"
"Good idea. . . er, Dragon? You're with me, back to Ops again - Sisko still wants to see you, so this should kill two birds with one stone.
:- //Birds? BIRDS? Does this mean I get to fly?//
"We really need to introduce you to the holosuite," murmured Dax as they headed off. Quickly. But not quickly enough, because as they were moving. . .
WHAAMM!
Another earthquake, at least twice as high on the ritcher scale as its predecessor - yells of alarm were cut off as people hit the deck, the table, or the nearest obstacle - Dax spun round and grabbed the nearest doorway, clinging equally strongly to the wish that the Dragon would retain her tenuous balance. She wasn't the only one having difficulties, as somebody encountered a console - decorating its surroundings with white-hot sparks - the hard way, when the momentum generated by blast hurled him over the top.
This time there was no mistaking the signature of weapons-fire.
"Report!"
Something was wrong with the lights, throwing the nerve-centre of the station into a dismal gloom punctuated by faint clouds of anaerobic gas and budding fires.
From a voice unmistakeably deeper than Kira's, which meant Sisko was on the bridge, shouting commands above the hiss of said fire-extinguishing measures. The power of the pulse was unprecedented, for the damage inflicted on the station wasn't simply the result of any single shot - a multiple barrage had struck it simultaneously, in assorted areas. Sisko only hoped life-support was still functioning - evacuating the station to flee before an unknown enemy was not a good strategy.
"O'Brien! What is going on?"
"I'm on it. . ." a second of tinkering and re-routing "That should do the trick - we've got partial sensors back again."
Finally, his efforts paid off - and everyone was left thinking, with the possible exception of the Dragon, that this was either a really bad dream, a really bad hallucination, a really bad simulation. . . or just another day facing impossible odds on Deep Space nine.
"Where in the quadrant did they come from!?"
The answer to Kira's shout was obvious.
"The wormhole. They somehow managed, to get through the wormhole."
An entire fleet of Dominion ships, to be exact.
"Benjamin, how could they get through?"
"I don't know, but that isn't the issue right now." He stared at the viewscreen, nostrils flared as if sheer unblinking helplessness and a large portion of equally helpless rage could drive them off. What had happened? If the failsafe of the wormhole had been breached, then they could count their days as residents of the alpha quadrant on the fingers of one humanoid hand.
And, just what they didn't need, although it wouldn't make much difference to the outcome of the commencing battle, they got another distraction curtesy of Beria.
". . . Y-Y-Yaaaaah!"
In a creditable display of athleticism, Beria hurdled the nearest console before colliding with one of the pursuind security officers. To be correct, Beria wasn't precisely Beria anymore but two separate entities, neither of whom looked like him, and only one of whom was at this moment stomping over the control panels with a grim-faced security officer on his tail.
And, as if things needed to be livened up, half the station's systems were off-line thanks to 'Beria's' undercover ministrations, with most of remainder discharging electricity into the atmosphere or the nearest innocent bystander.
Which was why, when Sisko found himself one moment in Ops on Deep Space Nine and the next in a poor, slightly blurry and foggy, rendition of Quark's bar, without having taken a step. Having realised what the misty atmosphere and the eerie mystical music was precluding to, he shouted:
"I don't have time for this! Put me back!"
It was, of course, vision from the Prophets - or wormhole aliens, depending on your point of view.
Since Sisko's point of view was, at this particular moment, on top of a Dabo table whilst elsewhere his station was disintegrating under the assault of however many hundred enemy vessels were surrounding it, he was understandable seething with frustration.
There was a subtle difference, however between this vision and the others Sisko, as the Emissary, had received: for once, the scenario granted him was totally depopulated. Nobody in sight. As the Prophets to communicate, generally manifested as people he knew, this was decidedly unusual.
In fact, the only sign of life was a sort of background humming noise that didn't fit in with the eerie music.
As Sisko concentrated on the discording hum, it rewarded him by seemingly increasing it volume.
". . . please stand by. . . we are experiencing some minor technical difficulties right now. . . services will resume shortly. . . please stand by. . ." Repeated a smooth female voice.
Sisko stained to hear another voice which sounded sufficiently irritated, he didn't interpret the infuriatingly vague information, although he did catch something that sounded like 'Bloody Y2K bug' and 'you'd think the mee- len-nee-um bug would happen *on* the millennium but nooo!'.
The interlude abruptly ended, he found himself looking at the ceiling and several members of his crew and the disturbingly close sharp teeth of the dragon - apparently that was because he was flat on his back, having collapsed during the episode. As he crawled on to his feet, he absently noted that someone had missed a patch on the ceiling.
The Prophets were 'experiencing some minor technical difficulties'.
Minor technical difficulties?
*Minor technical difficulties?!*
If time wasn't linear, and, as the Prophets so often claimed, they knew all about the timeline past, present and future, why hadn't they foreseen *this*?
More to the point, how, lacking a prophet-given miracle, were they going to repel this kind of force? For that matter, why hadn't they already been obliterated into particles smaller than a subatomic photon?
A subatomic photon, that doesn't even exist.
Could this assault be some kind of hologram?
"Chief, can you scan the ships for any kind of holographic energy?"
"I'm on it, commander."
O'brien was still scanning when the assault suddenly cease. Everybody was desperately thinking up long strings of scientific jargon; in the hopes of formulating from it, the usual sort of delusional, risky, insane idea that would help extricate them from this mess, when the viewscreen blipped, bubbled and burbled into life.
They were facing a very strange-looking Weyoun-type clone.
Not that he was physically any different from the rest of his clones - well, they were supposed to be identical, weren't they? - But he was dressed entirely in black, was staring disconsolately at the screen, and was making, totally out of character with his fellow clones, no effort to gloat.
The silence of Ops was disturbed by the struggling mass of security officers and their prisoner that spilled out of the turbolift. They came to a halt, where; on closer inspection, showed another made-up Weyoun with what looked like a wig and costume from some sort of ancient earth-history period drama, being restrained on the floor by a team of desperate security officers. Having formerly been known as 'Beria', he wrenched his head around to grin excitedly up at the screen.
"H-h-hi, how're you doing - th-this incredible, I a-actually got cap-capt - taken by the enemy! Is-isn't this brill-l-liant?" he babbled. His excitement was obviously affecting his speech centre.
The depressed-looking Vorta sniffed and made a half-hearted attempt at lifting his hand. Too great for him, the effort subsided.
"Uh."
"Oh, it l-l-looks like you're in need of a-aliittle cheering up. . ."
His sour-faced counterpart made a face, as if he knew what was coming, "No. . . it dosen't"
'Beria' smiled knowingly "Oh. . . yes, you do!"
The Vorta scowled at him, sarcastically mimicking "Oh. . . no, I don't"
"I know exactly what you need, some warm milk and cookies and a good ol' fashion hug. . ."
He walked up to a nearby console that held an image of his moaning look- alike, and hugged it.
People glanced back and forth between the obviously mentally unbalanced aliens like spectators in a tennis match. The bewildered security officers were shrugging in consternation.
Kira, however, was in favor of direct action and mimed tying a gag round the talkative mouth - or was that neck? - in the background, but, on the other hand , if keeping the deranged euphoric Vorta babbling on at the screen was the only thing preventing his mournful equal from firing on the station further, then it was a decidedly good thing. . .
It wasn't.
The black-clad Vorta manage to summon the energy to turn and face the Ops crew fully. His dejected expression complemented his mourning robes perfectly.
Garak, their resident tailor-cum-Obsidian-order-outcast, would have been impressed.
He arched an eyebrow and said, "Please. Shut him up. I don't care how you do it. Just make it happen."
It wasn't Federation policy to comply with the enemy, but in this case, well, this overly joyful Vorta would tax a Bolian's patience.
As nonplussed as the others by the exchange, the dragon seemed inclined to intervene.
"//Ahem. Allow me.//"
And by whatever trick of manipulation of the space-time continuum, she transported the manic vorta on Ops directly to the brig, much to the relief of the harassed security officers, and the surprise to his cell-mates.
By now, Worf, disgruntled and tight-lipped at the best of times, was reaching his own breaking point. "What is the point of this communication? We are *supposed* to be at war!"
Even a furious Klingon wasn't going to get an intelligent response from the Vorta, who, now that his hyper opposite had been dispatched, had presently used up his supply of enthusiastic monosyllables for the day.
"Uh. Whatever"
Incredulously, Sisko asked "Are you meant to be negotiating some kind of treaty with the Federation?"
It seemed as though the Vorta was going to ignore him, instead he thought for a moment before replying. "You know, I really can't be bothered to distroy you, I mean that requies me to give orders and that requires me to give some sort of effort. I've had a really bad. . . however long it was we were stuck in that. . . tunnel thingy. . . you know, the big blue thing. . . and I have to put up with *him* all the time" He sighed, heavily. "I just really can't be . . ." He trailed off and closed his eyes briefly before resuming. ". . . but since you insist. . ." he raise his hands in a pathetic gesture of menace "Agh. . . we *are* evil. *Evil*. . . like. . . *really* evil, *bad* . . . people. . . and we are gonna. . . *evilly*. . . be---"
At this point, a grey, slightly scaly-looking hand snagged the depressing spokesman by the neck of his black cloak and yanked him off the screen. "Whoa!"
He was replaced by a distinctly sheepish-looking Jem'hadar first.
"We'll be right back in just a second!" He forced a grin and cut the transmisson.
Meanwhile they had a shapeshifter to deal with.
Odo was checking Quark's bar to that effect: he hadn't spotted anything out of place but that didn't tell him anything he wanted to know except that the infiltrator knew how to imitate an bottle of alcohol. Maybe not a bottle, because the floor here was still canted at an angle and the gravity here was skewed, risking any nearby bottle to be smashed into smithereens. It was quite a health hazard for passer-bys; a single shot in this environment and you'd have to take cover under the closest table to dodge the
unidentifiable flying condiments. And at any moment, they might all cease to exist anyway, vaporised by a volley from the enemy.
Of course, Odo thought to himself, the upside being Quark was going to have to spend a *really* long time cleaning up his premises. That should prevent him from getting embroiled with any other criminal activities for a while. Odo indulged himself in a small smile, before he set upon the task of seeking out his target.
At first, what had happened involved staring at the viewscreen at the Vorta again, who had resumed his conversation. Such as it was.
As usual, O'Brien was working frantically to divert all power to the weapons array, but it was going to take some time to re-route all the jumbled systems. It looked like 'Beria' had tried to arrange the files so they spelled the anagram: 'Hello! Greetings from your friendly neighbourhood conqueror.'- and then run out of time. He hadn't done a very good job either, because it actually spelt: 'H-hi! Fello feet goers ring on our only nerdquery or dig. com, ooh!'
By this time, Dax had joined O'Brien at the console, while Sisko was shouting for reports down the comline.
The Jem'Hadar warriors had evidently abandoned trying to give their unhinged Vorta a pep-talk and were shrugging at each other in the background, which they had been doing for about five minutes before the Vorta actually slumped back into action again.
"Oh. You're still here. Well I'm not going to fire. . . I never wanted to be the right hand man of the most evil species from the Gamma Quadrant who want to take over all of the alpha-quadrant and turn its populace into their slaves anyway. I always wanted to be a lumberjack. . ."
They didn't seem to be in immediate danger.
Kira turned to Worf. "If we can keep him from firing on us we can get reinforcements here in time."
But Worf was baffled. "Why is he not fighting us?"
"Just keep him talking! We have to try and get a message through."
It was probably not the most intelligent option to assign Worf the task of conversationalist. Not that he couldn't improvise one when he wanted, but. . .
Kira got to work on the communications systems. They were being jammed, as expected, but if she could somehow penetrate the jamming frequencies and launch a message into subspace, then they could get help. But before she could begin, another comlink blinked at her.
"Security to Ops." The first thing she noticed was the panicked tone of address. Had half the prisoners broken out of their holding cells after Beria's little stunt with the DS9's controls? That was all they needed.
"Go ahead."
A fuzzy visual appeared on the console.
"We need backup!"
"Backup? What happened?"
"It's the prisoner! He's talking us to death!"
In the background, sure enough, babbled the relentless yammering of the criminally insane Beria. A conduit blew its fuse on the walls, silhouetting the speaker against a radiant waterfall of malfunctioning equipment and there was a sound of creaking as a strut near the wall gravitated away from its moorings.
"We're losing structural integrity down here! Its- its Beria - he's unstoppable!"
Abruptly, the link cut out.
With a flash of inspiration, Major Kira contacted sickbay. If the worst came to the worst, they could always get a science officer to soundproof the walls, or Bashir to use ventilation to send some airborn anaesthetic into the cells, although he might protest against the ethics and risks of gassing the prisoners' different physiologies. Meanwhile, they had to get some more information on Beria's. . . whatever you called it. Their SOS to Starfleet would have to wait in the hands of the anonymous, interchangeable ensigns who appeared so conveniently on request to carry out weird and wonderful orders. Strangely enough, however, there had been a shortage of them lately . . . so she had to leave it with Nog, who was frantically working at a station the other side of Ops, and was probably making the situation worse.
Kira returned to Worf's station, hoping against hope that some sort of level of reasonable discussion had been reached between them. It was a vain hope: their communication had degenerated into a staring contest which Worf was winning, mainly because the apathetic Vorta hadn't summoned the energy not to blink every few seconds. Kira respected the Klingon as a fine example of a tactical officer, but very occasionally his Klingon impulses got the better of him.
"Hah! You are a coward! There is no honour in surrounding a helpless enemy!"
The Vorta pouted, at the same time managing to look utterly disconsolate.
"Oh. well. I'm not particularly bothered. But I can't be stuffed to argue with you." He sighed, gathering his energies. "Fire."
And that was why everybody had to cling to the nearest solid object as DS9 was once more subjected to the punishing blasts.
://-Worf, what were you thinking?//. The Dragon looked at the Klingon with confusion. The crew didn't want to be fired upon yet they'd allowed this man to goad the apathy-loving vorta into attacking.
Despite the fact that everybody else in Ops was either panicking or unconscious, or possibly both, the dragon shook her head slowly from side to side, tutting in resigned amusement. Amusement that was quickly supplanted with surprise, then an evil grin, which was made all the more intimidating by that overgrown dentition.
:- //Ooh! Gotta go! Q's back!//
Nog ran after the dragon in protest, gesticulating wildly.
Which left Sisko and the others to cope with their impending destruction. It had not been a good day.
Some poor red shirted ensign hurtled into him with confused intent halfway across the promenade, after yet another barrage of enemy fire. And then hurtled right through him with a yelp of extreme surprise, as Odo had altered his physical composition to prevent himself from being splattered by some flying debris.
Unfortunately this did nothing to help the ensign as he crashed into the wall behind them and ricocheted off like a steel bearing in some huge pinball machine.
It seemed that every time the station deck shook from the weapons fire, there were more people playing dodge ball.
Then, something caught his attention. His first thought was that he had seen a) someone he'd arrested, i.e. Quark, or b) Kira, but no. The unusual detail he picked up on was that there was someone rushing on the promenade in the complete opposite direction of the crowd, and he didn't seem to be losing his balance and staggering like a drunkard every few seconds. Magnetised boots? Someone with an obscure mental ability that allowed them to levitate?
Or .
