Objective: Bajor Page 5

  Dron glanced at him sharply. "There will be sufficient remaining for our needs, though?"

  "Ah, yes, without doubt," Makarn responded. "There will be no delay in the Great Design."

  "Excellent." Relieved, Dron turned to Pakat. "And how is our readiness?"

  "We have three wings of attack vessels standing ready," Pakat reported. "The pilots have all achieved high scores in simulated runs, and I anticipate no problems. Our surveys show fewer than one hundred vessels currently in flight in the system, and their weaponry is inferior to ours."

  Tork shuffled in his seat and leaned forward. "You are preparing to attack the inhabitants?" he asked, concern in his voice.

  "We are preparing to defend ourselves," Pakat answered, snuffling loudly to show his displeasure. "Had you attended the last meeting, you would know that the local race—calling themselves 'Cardassians'—attacked our ships without provocation when last we met them. I am sure that none among us wishes to wait until they attack again before we prepare to defend ourselves?" He stared pointedly at Tork, who sat back in his seat and closed his mouth.

  "If that is quite clear?" asked Dron. There were no further comments. He hadn't expected there would be. Even Tork couldn't complain about defending themselves. "Boran?"

  The Industry Master stood up. "My teams are all prepared," he reported proudly. "We stand ready to harvest the coming fruits of our labor. Production is completely ready to commence as soon as the raw materials are obtained."

  "Excellent," Dron complimented him. "Then it is clear that we are ready—that the Great Design can go ahead. After half a million years, the plans of the First Hive come to fruition, and we achieve our destiny." He gestured at the holographic representation of the planet that spun in the air above the table's surface. "All departments will come to full strength," he commanded. Turning to his Security Master, he said, "Raldar, the time has come to speak with these 'Cardassians,' in this system. Have a link established immediately."

  "Of course," Raldar agreed. He set about tapping instructions into his comp. What only Dron and he knew was that there would be several layers of recording taken when they established contact. Dron couldn't take the chance that something might go amiss and spoil the records he intended to be kept for future Hives. However, if the aliens said or did anything untoward, it could be redesigned in the records Dron decided.

  A moment later, the spinning globe above the table was replaced by a hologram of an alien race—the first that the other Hivemasters had ever seen. There was a murmur of shock and disgust from those assembled about the table. Even the liberal Tork and the elderly Hosir couldn't restrain themselves.

  Well, the alien was ugly. It was also quite obviously not a Cardassian, but there was no need to mention that. This might be some subject species, for example. The being was roughly the size of a member of the Hive, and it stood upright, but that was about all the resemblance there was. It—possibly a he—was shell-less, and its skin was a pallid pink, instead of a rich gray. There was hair visible on the crown of its ugly head, and the being wore what appeared to be cloth draped over the larger part of its body. Dron wasn't too surprised—a creature that grotesque would have to cover itself.

  The being spoke for a moment, and then the translation computers could begin to decode its vocalizations."—First Minister Worin, of Darane Four," the creature was saying. "Please identify yourselves."

  Dron took a breath, and then said, "I am Hivemaster Dron of the Hive. You will leave your world immediately. We will allow you two days to evacuate your population."

  "What?"

  Was this alien stupid as well as deformed? Dron repeated his message patiently. "Do you comprehend?" he added.

  "You're … insane," Worin finally spluttered.

  "No," Dron answered. "We are not insane. You have two days. If you require assistance in evacuating your people, we will be willing to assist." He moved to cut the communication.

  "Wait!" Worin exclaimed, holding up a hand. "You …

  you're serious about this?"

  "Of course we are serious," Dron replied. "This is not a matter we would joke about."

  "But you can't be!" The alien looked almost panic-stricken. "What you ask is … unthinkable!"

  Dron sighed. "It is not unthinkable," he explained. "And we are not asking. We will allow you two days, and then we shall commence harvesting this world. If your people are not removed by then, they will simply have to suffer the consequences. We have no desire to injure anyone, but we will not alter our schedule."

  "No!" Worin seemed to have a grip on whatever low intelligence he possessed. The message had obviously sunk at least partway into his brain. "This is our world, and you cannot have it without a fight!"

  Dron had been afraid of this: the alien was clearly insane.

  "You are not utilizing the world," he explained. "We have need of it, and therefore we shall make use of it. Please stand aside and allow us to do this."

  "Darane Four is our home!" cried Worin. "We won't let you have it."

  "Home?" Dron shook his head in astonishment. "You are clearly not an intelligent species if you believe that a ball of mud and rock is a home. It is simply a resource, neither more nor less. You are not using it, so we shall."

  "He can't be serious," muttered Premon to the table at large. "He thinks that this world is his home? What kind of deviants are these people?"

  "The kind we will have trouble with," predicted Pakat.

  "They're obviously intelligent enough to build crude weapons, but too stupid to build a home of their own."

  Worin had been conferring with someone out of Dron's line of sight, in feverish haste. He now turned back to face the Hivemaster. "You will cease your flight," he ordered. "If you move any further into our system, we shall take it as a declaration of hostile intent and will be forced to defend ourselves."

  This was going far better than Dron had imagined possible. It was quite obvious to all the others about the table that they were being threatened first. There would be no need to edit this recording at all. "We are not an aggressive species," Dron replied carefully. "We do not wish you any harm. But we need the planet that you call …" He shuddered. "… home. If you try and interfere with the Great Design, we shall be forced to retaliate. Any injuries or deaths your people sustain will therefore be your own fault."

  "You're not having our planet!" Worin howled, and cut the communications link.

  Dron allowed the picture to fade, and waited a few heartsbeats before he spoke again. "It appears that we are dealing with a dangerously deranged species," he said sadly. "Pakat, it would appear that your brave pilots will be forced to defend the Hive."

  "And they all stand ready," Pakat answered proudly.

  "The alien aggressors will not harm the Hive. That I vow."

  "Good." Dron smiled. "We all knew that we could count on you." He spread his hands in resignation. "Well, we tried to do this without pain and bloodshed. Unfortunately, these aliens seem to completely lack logical faculties. We will be forced to fight them for what we need. Are there any further questions or comments?"

  As he had expected, Tork stood up. "Is this really necessary?" he asked. Dron could see the pain on his face, his nose wrinkling almost uncontrollably. "Must we … kill to obtain what we need?"

  "We all heard their spokesman," Dron told him. "They threatened us; any killing will begin with them and be on their own consciences."

  "No, I mean is there no other world we can use instead?" Tork explained. "One without such insane inhabitants? I am reluctant to condone the removal of a species that is obviously so feebleminded."

  "As are we all," Dron agreed, hypocritically. Sometimes decisions simply needed to be made, and then enforced. "And there are indeed further worlds that offer what we need."

  "Then why do we not use one of them?" asked Tork, almost desperately.

  "Makarn?" prompted Dron.

  "Ah, because they lie beyond this one," the Science Master explain
ed. "And we shall indeed use them. Once the process of deconstructing Darane Four is finished, then we shall need at least two further worlds.

  Ah, and there is no telling whether their inhabitants will be any less maniacal than the ones here. We must face the possibility that we could be in an area of space whose inhabitants are all terminally deranged."

  "Thank you." Dron signaled for Tork to reseat himself.

  "None of us wish harm even to such a subintelligent species. But we have no choice. If they attack us, we will defend ourselves. Darane Four will be the source of material for the next stage in the Great Design. Now, if there are no further comments, can I ask for a sign of assent?"

  Pakat and Raldar signified their approval instantly. One by one, the rest of the Hivemasters complied. As expected, Tork's vote was the last. But even he had agreed.

  "So be it," Dron announced. "The Great Design goes forward today!"

  Gul Dukat watched the transmission from the Karitan with great interest. The messages between the intruder and Darane IV had been intercepted. The aliens were not backing down, and those idiotic Bajoran colonists on Darane IV were equally stubborn. The intruder's craft was advancing into the Darane system, and the small fleet of ships the colonists possessed were massing to meet it.

  This should prove to be a most interesting day. . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  WORIN TURNED TO his aide in near panic. Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he always did when worried, he snapped, "Those maniacs are going to destroy our world!" He forced himself to think for a moment. "Get Major Marel, and order an immediate launch of every fighting vessel we have. Tell him our very existence depends on his skills."

  "Yes, sir," the aide said with alacrity, vanishing toward the communications room.

  Hurrying that way himself, Worin tried hard not to collapse in shock. It was unthinkable that anyone would be doing just what the alien intruders threatened, but they were quite clearly as serious as they were demented. Given the size of the incoming ship, he was virtually certain that they'd never hold this attack off alone. He needed help, and he needed it fast. Entering the communications room, he rushed to the nearest console.

  "Clear whatever you're doing immediately," he snapped. "And open a channel to Bajor highest priority."

  "Yes, sir." The woman obeyed promptly, simply cutting the channel she'd been using and opening a new one. "Whom shall I ask for?"

  "First Minister Shakaar, and no one else," Worin answered, feverishly. He tapped his fingers on the top of the console impatiently as the woman patched through the call. A moment later, Shakaar's harried-looking face appeared on the screen.

  "Yes?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "I'm very busy, so—"

  "Darane Four is under attack by an unknown alien species!" blurted out Worin, unable to contain his panic any longer. "They've threatened to destroy our world and kill us all!"

  Shakaar's face went almost blank, but Worin could see in his eyes that he was thinking fast. "All right," Shakaar snapped. "Hold them as long as you can. What kind of defense do you have?"

  "Not much," Worin answered. "Just a few dozen interceptors. We never dreamed that anything like this could ever happen!"

  "I'll mobilize whatever forces I can to help," Shakaar promised. "And I'll contact Captain Sisko for help from the Federation. Keep this channel open, and send us all the information you can." He looked away from the screen. "You," he called. "Over here. Record everything that comes through at this board." He turned back to Worin. "Do your best. Help is on its way." He moved out of sight, and a young woman took his place.

  Worin wrung his hands together. Help is on its way. . . .

  But from Bajor, two systems away. It would be hours before anyone could arrive, assuming they were already in space. As for help from the Federation—how long would that take? By treaty with the Cardassians, they weren't allowed any permanent show of force in this sector. Any starships they'd send would have to take days to get here. . . .

  It looked very, very bad for Darane. . . .

  "All units," Marel transmitted, "signal in and identify yourselves." He stood on the bridge of the Morvan Falls, the largest ship in the Darnian fleet Largest! It was a smallish battle cruiser, with a crew of fifty-eight. It didn't have the firepower to take out a starship, let alone whatever their unknown enemy might fling at them. And, judging from what his sensors were showing, the aliens must have a tremendous force. Their main vessel was thousands of miles long—how many attack ships might it hold?

  Still, it was all irrelevant. There was no question of his duty and his responsibility. He had to do his best to defend Darane IV, and at the very least buy the planet all the time he could until reinforcements arrived.

  "All ships reported in," his first officer announced. She grimaced slightly. "Eighty-six ships, most of them low-level interceptors. We've got just three further cruisers, sir."

  "Then that will have to be sufficient," he replied firmly.

  "Anything yet on the aliens?"

  "Not yet." She gestured at the screen, where the huge ship was already visible, even though it was still half the system away. "They've not launched anything at all." She chewed her lip uncertainly. "Do you think the whole craft is a fighter?"

  "We'd better pray it isn't," he answered. "If it were, I can't think of anything this side of a Borg ship that might be able to stop them." He considered for a moment. "All right. Signal all ships to begin closing in. Let's take the battle as close to the enemy as we can."

  She nodded. "All ships," she called out. "Prepare for action. Target, ahead, bearing one nine oh mark four. Distance—"

  Tuning her out, Marel studied the image on the screen ahead of him. What kind of weapons do they have? he wondered. And why are they so arrogant, so confident?

  Pakat moved closer to Dron. All of the Hivemasters were still in the conference room, and would be until the battle was over, but they had broken into smaller clumps to talk quietly. Only Dron sat alone, watching his comp to keep up to date with everything that was happening.

  "They have launched attack vessels," Pakat reported. "They have begun the fight."

  "Excellent." Dron gave his friend a smile of satisfaction and confidence. "Nothing your pilots cannot handle, I take it?"

  "Of course not." Pakat sounded slightly shocked at the mere thought. "At your word, I will launch the first flight."

  Dron considered for a moment, then decided. "Allow them to get closer," he said. "I want it perfectly clear that they have commenced this action. They are scared," he added. "They will fire the first shots. Then annihilate them."

  "Understood." Pakat moved off to his communications station. His eagerness for the impending battle showed in his jaunty steps. Dron smiled again.

  The Great Design was almost upon them, and he had the honor and glory of leading the Hive to their destiny! He glanced around the room, taking in the faces of the other Hivemasters. They all looked tense, but none of them looked worried—except for Tork. He was as nervous as a shallath tossed in water.

  And he was talking animatedly with that old fool, Hosir. Dron frowned. What did the two of them have in common? Then he shrugged the matter off. It wasn't really important. Neither of them had voiced any dissent to his policies. Neither of them would dare to object to the implementation of the Great Design.

  "Target closing fast," the first officer reported.

  Marel nodded. "Still no sign of their ships?" He was juggling plans in his head. With his small fleet, there was no feasible way of attacking the main vessel.

  "Not yet," she answered.

  "And how about sensor readings on the intruder itself?"

  "They reveal nothing at all," the first officer reported. "The sensors simply seem to slide off that metal—if it is metal. I can't read anything at all inside the craft … city … whatever it is. There are several places in the skin of the ship that look like portals and—" She broke off, and bent over her screen. "Sir, one o
f the portals has opened. The aliens have launched … one hundred ships."

  "On screen," Marel ordered. The picture flickered and then showed a close-up of one section of the intruder. A portal had irised open, and dozens of small, dartlike ships were flooding out. Interestingly, they traveled in pairs. Marel's mind clicked on this. Was this an attack formation, or did they have some kind of need to be together?

  "Signal all ships," he ordered. "Engage the enemy at will."

  "Yes, sir." She bent to the panel to issue the order.

  Marel studied the ships as they spiralled out from the alien craft. They were smaller even than most of his ships. They didn't look to be that formidable.

  Why, then, did he have a very bad feeling about this?

  "Weapons?" he called out.

  "Primed and ready," the gunner answered. "Shields at maximum."

  "Take us in," he ordered the helmswoman. "Sublight drive at half, full sensor sweeps." He turned back to his first officer. "Any readings on those craft?"

  She studied her board. "Similar metallic construction to the intruder," she replied thoughtfully. "Not as dense, but still almost impossible to break through. I read the power source from its reactor, but no sign of weapons buildup. They do possess shields." She scowled. "Pretty good ones, too."

  "No weapons?" Marel shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he complained. "They're intercepting us. They must have some sort of weapons."

  "I'm not reading any energy buildups," she insisted. "Nothing to show that any weapons systems we know are being brought on-line."

  What was going on here? Marel nervously chewed at his thumbnail. "What about projectile weapons?" Maybe they weren't very sophisticated?

  "Nothing that I can detect," she replied, sounding as puzzled as he did. "There's nothing at all that I can pinpoint as a weapon on any of those ships."

  "Suicide bombers?" he mused. Maybe their plan was to collide with the Daranian craft and explode themselves and their targets?