Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

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“All Stations, Report Status.”

“Tactical and communications, ready,” Bowers said.

“Science and sensors, ready.” Ch’Thane.

“Impulse engines are online, warp power available on your command.” Nog.

“Life support at optimum. Medical bay standing by.” Bashir.

“The ship is ready, Captain,” Dax said. “Your orders?”

Captain,Vaughn thought. A fellow could get used to that.“Release docking clamps. Aft thrusters at one-quarter, port and starboard thrusters at station-keeping.” Around them, the ship seemed to change, like a great beast waking from its slumber. Ahead of them loomed the great, exotic form of Deep Space 9, the station receding gradually before them.

“Conn,” Vaughn said, “set course for the wormhole.”

“Course laid in.”

“Ahead one-half impulse,” Vaughn said. “Take us in.”

Vaughn felt Defiantleap forward beneath him, charging toward the unknown. Their mission to explore the Gamma Quadrant had begun.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An OriginalPublication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Copyright © 2002 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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ISBN: 0-7434-4561-9

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

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To Patricia Ann Walenista,

one of the brightest stars in my sky,

whose glow bestows warmth,

whose light provides guidance,

and whose every rise brings love and support

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank several people for their generous assistance and incomparable support during the writing of this novel. I must first express my gratitude to Marco Palmieri, not only for offering me this opportunity, but also for providing expert guidance, vivid creativity, and an awful lot of fun along the way. Marco’s vision, enthusiasm, and drive for the Star Trek: Deep Space Ninenovel “relaunch” keeps me coming back to the series as a reader and fan, and I am delighted to have been asked to contribute to the unfolding saga. Not only is Marco terrific to work with, but he’s also a good guy.

I would also like to thank the other writers of the Mission: Gammaseries, but in particular, Michael A. Martin and Andy Mangels. Both cheerfully and expertly provided answers to innumerable questions, and Mike’s incredible volume of research for the relaunch made the difficult task of maintaining continuity much less arduous. Thanks, too, to Keith R.A. DeCandido, who also answered several questions about the Trekuniverse.

Because I did not get the opportunity to do so in the acknowledgments to The 34th Rule—since he and I wrote them together—I want to thank Armin Shimerman, who suggested that we write a Star Treknovel in the first place, and with whom it was an absolute pleasure to work. Armin is an incredibly talented artist—actor, writer, teacher—and I am fortunate to be able to call him a friend. I’m looking forward to his next novel, Outrageous Fortune,a follow-up to his marvelous The Merchant Prince.

On an even more personal level, thanks to Richie Hertz, whose big-picture mentality, keen wit, and razor-sharp intellect are surpassed only by his ability to turn on an inside fastball. He remains one of the very few people I know who appreciates a good physics joke. I value his friendship beyond measure.

Thanks also to the Ragan family, who have always welcomed me into their midst. I especially want to send my love and gratitude to Elizabeth, the loving and amazing matriarch; to Lillian, the sweet and caring aunt; and to the wonderful Audrey and Walter, who have truly made me feel like their son.

I also want to thank Jennifer “CJ” George and Anita Smith, two magnificent women whose constant love and encouragement never fail to bolster me. I am privileged to have them in my life.

And finally, thank you to Karen Ann Ragan-George. Each and every day, Karen does the impossible, by transforming the woman of my dreams into the woman of my reality. She not only made this book possible, she makes everything possible. To say that I could not have written this book without her love and nurturing does not begin to describe her contribution to everything I do and everything I am. Karen is my universe—and what a fabulous place to live!

Part One

Vexed The Dim Sea

…All times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vexed the dim sea….

–ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,

“ULYSSES”

1

He watched her die, and in that terrible instant, he relived the moment of their separation, felt the weight of the years since, and regretted everything.

Prynn’s body landed in a heap beside the captain’s chair, the foul smell of singed flesh already rising from her. Elias Vaughn looked down at her as he leaped from the chair, and saw the midsection of her uniform burned away. Past the seared edges of the fabric that remained, her skin was charred black. Blood seeped from her mangled body and pooled in her wounds like crimson floodwaters across a ruined landscape.

Vaughn pulled his gaze away and, with an emotional effort, moved past the remains of his daughter, toward the console she had a moment ago been operating. He suppressed the ache growing within him and focused on reaching the conn, on keeping Defiantintact and headed away from its attackers. Prynn was dead, but the rest of the crew were not.

With each step, Vaughn felt the labored vibrations of the impulse drive translating through the deck plates. Dark gray eddies of smoke swirled about the bridge, carrying with them the electric scent of overheated circuitry. Flashes of scarlet, the visual call to battle stations, shined here and there through the haze. He reached the conn and bent to assay the readouts, waving away the smoke with an open hand. The low moan of the straining engines deepened as Vaughn eyed the display, and he was not surprised to find the ship no longer holding course. He reached down to work the controls, but flames surged up from beneath the console. Vaughn threw an arm up in front of his face as he staggered back a step, the intense heat blistering his arm even through his uniform sleeve. The air pressure decreased a moment, the hungry fire gathering fuel for itself. The flames sounded like a banner whipping in the wind, loud enough for Vaughn to hear over the inconsistent thrum of the overburdened drive and the many alarms screaming for the crew’s attention.

A voice called out above the din—“Weapons power to the shields?”—only to be followed by another shouting that Defiant’s weapons were offline. Lieutenant Bowers at tactical, Lieutenant Nog at engineering, Vaughn thought, startled for a moment to realize that he was not alone. Even as his instincts to save the crew had driven him to action, their presence had vanished from his mind; for long seconds, his entire universe had been smoke and flame, vibration and sound, and the image of his daughter’s mutilated corpse.

Ensign ch’Thane worked the sciences station, Vaughn thought, forcing himself wholly back into the moment. And somewhere behind him, Lieutenant Dax and Dr. Bashir filled out the roster of bridge personnel. If any of them were saying anything, he could not hear them.

Vaughn looked past his upraised arm and squinted at the fire engulfing the conn. Streaks of brilliant indigo snaked up through the otherwise orange-yellow flames. Chromium,Vaughn thought, even as he began to move again, the recollection or misrecollection of which elements burned which colors incongruously percolating up from memory. He moved around the console and dropped to his knees. From this vantage, he could see the jagged margin of a hole in the decking beneath the conn, the flames erupting from it in great sheets. The explosion that had claimed Prynn had obviously occurred just below.

Defiantrocked suddenly and violently, inertial dampers failing for a second. Another Jarada disruptor bolt, Vaughn guessed as he felt the ship pitch forward. Too close to his goal to give it up, and knowing time was running out for the crew, he grabbed for the console support as he was thrown off balance. Somehow, his fingers found their mark and took hold. Pain flared through his right hand, his flesh binding itself to the hot metal in a horrible embrace. But he held on, pulling himself back to his knees and closer to the underside of the console.

A disembodied voice yelled something Vaughn could not make out, the fire bellowing in his ears like the roar of some mammoth molten beast. He listened for other words, but heard only the flames. A murky cloud seemed to pass through his mind, like the smoke churning through the bridge. He realized he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

With a bellow of his own, Vaughn thrust his free hand up under the conn and felt for the fire-suppression canister. His uniform sleeve caught fire, and beneath it, so too did his skin. His fingertips brushed the canister, amazingly still cool to the touch. Vaughn quickly pulled the cylinder free with one hand, then pulled his other hand from the console support, the pain of his skin tearing away an afterthought in the wake of his determination. He aimed and activated the canister, and a fog of chemical retardant spouted out in a billowy white cone, extinguishing his flaming sleeve. Parts of his arm felt the cold of the chemicals, but where his flesh had been scorched, it burned as though still afire.

Vaughn tilted the canister away from himself and attacked the flames where they emerged from the hole in the decking. The fire retreated briefly, then resumed, and Vaughn feared it might win his battle with it. He pushed himself forward beneath the conn and thrust the canister directly over the hole. The sound of the flames drowned beneath the onslaught of the pressurized chemicals, and finally, so did the fire.

Vaughn continued spraying, emptying the canister into the hole. With the fire extinguished, the force of the explosion that had caused it became clear—as though Prynn’s maimed body were not proof enough. The roughly circular hole beneath the conn stretched nearly a meter in diameter, Vaughn saw. The deck plating twisted upward and outward, the metal blackened and bent as though it had offered the blast only minimal resistance.

“Aft shields failing,” somebody shouted, the identity of the voice swallowed up by the discordant and increasingly loud pulse of the impulse engines, the speaker hidden by the veil of smoke. Probably Bowers,Vaughn thought as he rose to his feet. He dropped the canister to one side, but did not hear it strike the deck above the cacophony permeating the bridge. Warning signals punctuated the clamor, and though he could not make out their words, Vaughn heard other officers barking out information.

Vaughn bent over the conn, now between it and the forward viewer. He wanted to find the helm controls and bring Defiantback on course. If they were far enough away from Torona IV, then he could engage the warp drive—provided it was still intact—and possibly outrun the Jarada before they had time to mount a larger attack force.

The console was dark. The glassy surface of the display reflected the diffused overhead lighting, but no controls and no readouts shined within. A jolt shook Vaughn as though he had been stunned with a phaser. If they couldn’t regain control of the ship, they had no chance of escaping the Jarada.

Vaughn looked up at the rest of the bridge, trying to see the crew through the haze. The ship shuddered again beneath another assault, but it must have been a glancing blow, effectively dissipated by the ablative armor, because nothing exploded and Vaughn was able to keep his feet. He waved at the smoke swimming around him, the gray miasma thinning now that the fire was out and the ventilation system could catch up.

He strained to see through the cloudy atmosphere. As the smoke swirled, he caught a glimpse of one of the crew in profile at the rear of the bridge. Distinctive dark markings spilled from a temple down the side of a fair face and neck, making the Trill unmistakable. “Dax,” he called, “reroute flight control.”

He watched her operate an aft console, and then she yelled, “I’ve got it.”

Vaughn started toward the lieutenant, but stopped when he saw movement at the center of the bridge. On the floor beside the command chair, Bashir leaned over Prynn’s unmoving body. The doctor held a tricorder in one hand and an instrument Vaughn did not recognize in the other.

Vaughn looked at the inert face of his daughter. Her porcelain features, normally tense and expressive despite their delicacy, were now slack, even peaceful, contradicting the awful mass of injuries her body had sustained. For a moment, he saw Prynn’s mother, her own mien passive—at peace somehow, despite her obvious understanding of what was soon to come—in that instant he last saw her. He felt the familiar rage and anguish building within him, the enormous guilt not far behind, and he wondered how this could have happened again.

You have a mission,he told himself, and allowed the simple statement—his old mantra—to carry him away from his private darkness. He raced past Nog and Bowers, both intent on their consoles.

When he arrived beside Dax, her fingers were sprinting back and forth across the display—“Resequencing the reactors,” she said, raising her voice amid the tumult—and after a few seconds, the vibrations of the impulse drive steadied. Several alarms quieted too, lessening the commotion considerably; now only a couple of staccato tones persisted in their warnings. Vaughn could have ordered them silenced, but they were a source of information, and in any dangerous situation, he sought information. “Taking evasive action,” Dax continued. Better than the sound of the stabilized engines and fewer alarms was no sound at all: the absence of Jarada weaponry landing on Defiantas the lieutenant maneuvered the ship.

“How far from the planet?” Vaughn wanted to know. Dax told him. They were still too close to go to warp safely.

“Two more Jarada heavies emerging from the far side of the second moon,” Bowers called from his station. Those were in addition to the pair of battleships Vaughn knew were already pursuing Defiant.

“If we can stay at full impulse,” Dax reported, checking her readouts, “they won’t be able to catch us. We only have to worry about the ones already firing on us.”

If only we could stand our ground and defend ourselves,Vaughn thought. This was not a fair fight, though, and would not be even if Defiant’s weapons could be brought back online. Not because the bantam starship could not best a top-of-the-line Jarada vessel—or even bear up against several of them—but because this was a battle Defiant’s crew could not join. The Jarada were a strange and reclusive species, punctilious in the extreme, and often very difficult to deal with; they had once terminated contact with the Federation for two decades after a UFP representative had mispronounced a single one of their words during an introduction ceremony. But while temperamental in many regards, the Jarada were also in some ways predictable: they employed well-defined rules of engagement, and it was that fact about them that constrained Vaughn’s actions right now.

“Sir,” Nog yelled, a second after another alarm began bleating. “The impulse engines are losing power.” Vaughn looked to Dax, wanting the information to prove false, but the alarm and her expression told him otherwise. And he had known better anyway: in his experience, only good news ever turned out to be suspect.

As if to underscore his thought, the tone of the impulse drive changed once more, flattening and slowing, and then Defiantrattled again beneath the force of a disruptor bolt slamming into the ship. Sparks flew from a port-side console, but despite the failure of the aft shields, the hull armor again withstood the attack. Bowers confirmed this a moment later, but the continued existence of Defianthad already told Vaughn what he needed to know. Effective as the ablative armor was at dissipating the effects of the Jarada weaponry, though, it would not hold up indefinitely; each attack thinned the hull plating, Vaughn knew, its layers vaporizing at the point of impact and dispersing the destructive energy out into space.

He stepped up to the tactical station, beside Bowers. Vaughn had actually anticipated the possibility of something like this turn of events during the past couple of days, but there had been no apparent solution other than for the crew to speed their way through it. And as bad as the situation now was, it would deteriorate even further if Vaughn gave in to temptation and defended Defiantby means other than retreat.

Less than three days ago, the Jarada had grudgingly helped the Federation save the lives of a half-million people in the evacuation of the human civilization from Europa Nova. During an extended incident in which previously unknown Iconian gateways—essentially, open doorways linking noncontiguous and often distant locations—had suddenly become operational, masses of lethally irradiated material had spilled out of an orbital gateway and threatened the population of the planet. A convoy led by the Bajoran Militia had managed to evacuate almost all of the Europani to safety, but five hundred thousand had been forced to flee through a second gateway, this one on the surface of their world and linking to Torona IV, one of the home planets of the Jarada.

“Status,” Vaughn said to Bowers.

“Aft shields are gone. Aft armor down to sixty-seven percent.” That measure would not need to diminish to zero, Vaughn knew, before the hull ruptured beneath a disruptor hit. And when that happened, explosive decompression would be just the beginning of a chain of rapid and catastrophic failures that would leave only debris and a bright energy signature where Defianthad been.

“What happened to those evasive maneuvers?” Vaughn called back to Dax, though the answer was clear: as quickly and as well as the lieutenant had taken to the demands of command, she was a good pilot, but not the career pilot that Prynn was.

That Prynn had been.

An unsettling mixture of pride and sorrow rose within Vaughn, quickly threatening to overwhelm him. Pressure built behind his eyes, and it struck him that, for the first time in years, it would be an easy thing to allow himself to break down, to give in to his pain and abdicate his responsibilities. But that was not really an option. He willed himself—as he had so many times before—to disconnect from his emotions. You have a mission,he told himself again. If he survived this encounter with the Jarada, there would be time later to mourn.

Dax announced an automated evasion sequence, and the impulse drive whined as it struggled to support the new instructions. Vaughn felt a shift in the pit of his stomach, the gravity generators and inertial dampers adjusting as Defiantsheared from its course. Tremors rumbled through the ship’s superstructure, but at least for the moment, no weapons landed.

Vaughn peered at the main viewer. In his mind, he saw what was not visible on the screen: the near pair of Jarada ships dancing in lethal patterns about Defiant,the far pair charging toward the scene. He searched his vast experience for similar predicaments and recalled several, but none in which his actions had been so tightly restricted.

Vaughn had secured safe harbor on Torona IV for the evacuees by providing technical data about the gateways to the Jarada. In the few days since, Europa Nova had been completely evacuated, and Vaughn and his crew had then led a convoy to the Torona system. There, they had overseen the relocation of the half-million Europani to Bajor, where the rest of their population awaited eventual return to their world once it had been decontaminated. The last group of transports had broken orbit less than an hour ago, and in that time, the Jarada had apparently discovered that the gateways had been shut down, possibly for good, and certainly for the foreseeable future. Considering their xenophobic nature, the Jarada might have welcomed this, but instead, with the technical information they had been given now valueless to them, they had chosen to believe themselves duped by Vaughn.

“The near ships are splitting up,” Bowers said. Vaughn turned from the main viewer—the starfield swooped and dashed, seemingly at random, he saw, as Dax tried to evade their attackers—and looked at the tactical officer. The alert lighting tinted the young man’s dark skin on and off with a rich, rosy glow. “They’re moving to flank us,” the lieutenant said, his tone a blend of resignation and anger, Vaughn thought. “The far ships are closing the gap. They’ll be in weapons range soon.”

The initial attack on Defianthad come as the crew had prepared to leave orbit about Torona IV and begin the return journey to DS9. Vaughn had been speaking via subspace with a representative of the planetary regime, thanking him for the forbearance of his people in allowing the Europani on their soil. The official had responded with accusations of duplicity, the harsh, insectile clattering of his voice breaking into the smooth speech of the universal translator when his words could not adequately be interpreted. Before Vaughn could explain or apologize or offer some sort of recompense, the Jarada vessel assigned to escort Defiantwithin the Torona system had attacked. An instant later, planetary defenses had launched their own massive barrage, and a second Jarada vessel had charged into battle.

Defianthad withstood the initial assaults, the substantially fortified ship among the toughest in Starfleet, but it had also suffered significant damage. Vaughn had taken the only action he could: he had ordered retreat. If Defiantdefended itself by employing any of its weaponry, he knew, the military protocols of the Jarada would send them in pursuit of the convoy. Almost the entire evacuation force consisted of freighters and personnel transports, civilian vessels incapable of outrunning Jarada warships, and with virtually no weapons or defense systems. The convoy carried a hundred thousand Europani, not to mention thousands of crew; the loss of life would be enormous.

“How long?” Vaughn asked Bowers, wanting to know how much time they had before they were besieged by all four Jarada ships.

“Six minutes.”

Vaughn raised his hand to his forehead and wiped it clear of sweat. The air on the bridge, though steadily clearing of smoke, was stifling.

“Do we have warp drive?” Vaughn asked.

“The warp engines are intact,” Nog told him, “but there’s a microfracture in the port nacelle.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough: we wouldn’t be able to maintain warp for more than a few seconds.” Nog peered over his shoulder, and Vaughn noticed a gloss of perspiration coating the lieutenant’s face, his huge, ribbed ears, and his large, bald head.

“How many?” Vaughn asked. He peered over at the main viewer again. He saw only stars, but pictured the two trailing Jarada warships descending toward Defiant,ready to join with their sister ships to put an explosive end to this one-sided battle.

“How many what?” Nog sounded confused, as though Vaughn had asked the question in another language.

“How many seconds would we be able to maintain warp?”

Nog’s eyes narrowed, the fleshy ridge that ran from the top of each ear and across his brow descending in perplexity. Still, he turned to consult his console. “Forty seconds at most,” he said at last. “But maybe no more than twenty-five.”

“Lieutenant,” Vaughn said to Dax. “How much time before we’re at a safe distance to go to warp?”

“Seven minutes on a linear course,” Dax answered immediately. “Almost a minute and a half after the third and fourth Jarada ships get here.”

Vaughn turned in place, surveying the bridge, his mind working over the facts of the situation. They had to remain out of weapons range of the second pair of Jarada vessels; once those two ships entered the battle, it would end quickly. Vaughn could risk going to warp as close as Defiantwas to Torona IV, and the ship would likely be safe. Employing warp drive this deep in a planetary gravity well carried a risk, to be sure, but incidents rarely occurred. The real problem would be that the Jarada would view such an action as depraved disregard for their world and their people, which would drive them to pursue the convoy.

Vaughn’s gaze fell to the center of the bridge, to the captain’s chair. To his surprise, Prynn’s corpse no longer lay beside it, nor was Dr. Bashir still there. With all the commotion, Vaughn had not even heard the sound of the transporter.

Fury swam up from the depths of Vaughn’s submerged emotions. His body involuntarily tensed, his wrath driving him toward physical action. His jaw set, his teeth clenched, his hands drew into fists. The Jarada had attacked Defiantand killed his only child—were still attacking, attempting to kill all the crew—and for what? Because they had been asked to assist in the rescue of a half-million people, and the price they had been paid had not satisfied them? Vaughn’s lips pressed together, his eyes slammed shut, and in his intensity he wanted to return fire, wanted to vent the destructive power of this ship that had been designed to repel a Borg incursion. He visualized the remnants of the Jarada ships scattered harmlessly across the expanse of space.

The orders he knew he would not give floated through his mind: Lock pulse phaser cannons. Arm quantum torpedoes. Fire at will.Vaughn craved to avenge his daughter, and to guarantee the safety of the crew, but he understood well the repercussions of launching any assault against the Jarada under these circumstances. He thought briefly of the only other military vessel besides Defiantto accompany the convoy. The Cardassian cruiser Tragerhad remained well outside the Torona system during the evacuation, so that its presence would not incite the Jarada. But even if Tragerwere not still damaged from its many battles during the Dominion War, it would not be able to defend dozens of civilian vessels against an attack by a squadron of Jarada warships—an attack that would surely come should Defiantopen fire.

Vaughn opened his eyes, again settling his emotions through a conscious effort. He slowed his breathing and tried to let go the tension in his body. His fingers unfurled, and he realized that his right hand hurt badly, the enveloping throb of his heartbeat a clockwork agony pressing in on his wounds.

Vaughn dismissed the pain as best he could, then turned toward Bowers. “Status of the cloaking device?” he asked, still searching for the tactics that would see the crew safely back to DS9.

“Operational,” Bowers said.

“I thought we were not supposed—” started Ensign ch’Thane, but then he abruptly stopped speaking. Vaughn looked toward the sciences console, over on the port side of the bridge. Even though ch’Thane had already returned his attention to his readouts, Vaughn still perceived embarrassment in the science officer’s tense back and hunched shoulders, the slightly curled posture of his antennae. Amid the turmoil, Vaughn unexpectedly felt one side of his mouth curl upward in a half-smile. He did not find the questioning of his prospective orders amusing, but the ensign’s discomfiture was curious. From what Charivretha had related to him, young Shar stood well accustomed to challenging authority.

“What about the shields?” Vaughn asked Bowers. The air on the bridge, he noticed, was almost entirely clear of smoke now, though the ashen taste of the fire’s residue still remained.

“Aft shields are gone,” Bowers said. “Remaining shields down to thirty-seven percent port, fifty-one percent fore and starboard.” He pressed a couple of touchpads and consulted a readout before continuing. “Ablative armor buckled on the port impulse casing. We’ve got a small hull rupture.”

“We’re leaking deuterium there,” Nog added. “That’s the source of the power drain.”

“Does the leak affect all the impulse engines?” Vaughn asked.

“No,” Nog said. “Just the port engine.”

“Can we shut it down and reroute power to the other two?” Vaughn suggested. “And flush the deuterium so we’re not leaving a trail for our friends?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Defiant’s stern.

Nog operated his console. “We can stop the leak by shutting down the port engine,” he confirmed. “But we’ve got nowhere to take power from for the other two. Weapons systems are down, shields are failing—”

“Get ready to do it,” Vaughn ordered, cutting the engineer off. To Dax, he said, “Prepare to give me a linear course.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vaughn paced over to the engineering station and leaned in over Nog’s shoulder to peer at the displays. “On my mark, take the port engine offline and vent the deuterium. Then reroute all available power to the other impulse engines, everything but for gravity, the cloaking device, and whatever you need for the warp drive.”

Nog’s eyes remained focused on his console, his hands working to set up the reconfiguration of the ship’s systems, even as he sought clarification of Vaughn’s orders. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Vaughn said. Then, to be sure there was no mistake, he added, “Shields, any reserves left in the weapons, transporters, communications, sensors, life support.” To the crew, Vaughn supposed, the orders must have sounded desperate, but he did not have time to explain why this course would provide them the best chance for survival. The Jarada were nothing if not intensely territorial; if they couldn’t destroy Defiant,they’d be satisfied to drive her out of their domain, and the incident would end here. Escape meant the hundred thousand Europani still in transit to Bajor would be safe.