Devil in the Sky Read online

  Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.

  Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  Contents

  Historian’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Historian’s Note

  Devil in the Sky takes place in the second season of STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE.

  CHAPTER 1

  Station Log, Commander Benjamin Sisko, Stardate 46384.1:

  In hopes of reviving the Bajoran mining industry, left devastated after the Cardassian Occupation, the Federation has arranged, in cooperation with private Bajoran investors, to transport a family of Hortas to Bajor. In theory, the Hortas will use their natural tunneling abilities to find pockets of minerals and ore which the Cardassians either missed or deemed too difficult to extract.

  We are currently awaiting the arrival of the Federation cruiser Puyallup, en route from Janus VI. I have dispatched a team of officers to welcome the Hortas to Deep Space Nine….

  THE AIRLOCK DOOR rolled out of the way like a gear in some enormous clockwork mechanism. In contrast to the grim gray walls of the docking ring, the circular door was the dull red color of drying human blood. Damn Cardassian architecture, Major Kira Nerys thought as she walked briskly through the airlock toward Docking Port 8; even after so much time on the station, I still haven’t grown accustomed to the ugliness of it all. Cardassian aesthetics are on a par with their ethics, she mused; that is, they don’t exist.

  Kira suspected that Commander Sisko would not approve of such sentiments, at least in public. His Federation was annoyingly reluctant to criticize the cultures of even their most loathsome enemies. Hell, they had even made peace with the Klingons. Sometimes she thought it was a miracle that the entire Federation hadn’t been conquered centuries ago. But then, Kira wasn’t sure she believed in miracles anymore.

  Another airlock door, its gearlike teeth crimson as a Bajoran sea-tiger, opened before her and the Bajoran major found herself in a small waiting area outside the docking port. A triangular display, lit in shades of red and blue, announced the arrivals and departures of various spacecraft. An outdated map of the station, mounted on the wall under a sheet of transparent aluminum, waited to mislead newcomers to DS9. Two of her fellow officers, Lieutenant Jadzia Dax and Dr. Julian Bashir, glanced toward her as she approached them. Although a stark metal bench, of Cardassian design, was bolted to both the floor and the adjoining wall, the pair of officers remained standing. Kira didn’t blame them; uncomfortable and uninviting, the bench resembled a torture device better suited to a dungeon than a space station.

  Dax gave Kira a friendly smile and nod, while Bashir kept on babbling at the young woman, his hands waving enthusiastically as he spoke. As usual, Kira noted, Bashir was hovering around Dax’s lithe, attractive form just like a Ferengi would. Why Dax had never told Bashir just where he could beam himself Kira had never understood.

  “As a specialist in multispecies medicine,” the doctor was saying, “naturally I find the Hortas fascinating. They were the first silicon-based life-form humanity ever encountered. Not only that, they also secrete a powerfully corrosive acid that allows them to move through solid rock the same way humanoids move through air. They actually digest raw iron and other minerals!”

  What was Bashir most enthralled with, Kira wondered: Dax’s bright blue eyes and gracefully spotted neck—or the sound of his own voice? Please, Jadzia, Kira thought silently. Don’t encourage him.

  “Really, Julian?” Dax said indulgently. “That’s very interesting.”

  Oh, no. Kira sighed and shook her head. There was no shutting him up now. Sure enough, Bashir leaned against the bulkhead wall, in what he doubtless considered a suave and dashing manner, and resumed his lecture. A Starfleet medical pouch, strapped over his shoulder, dangled next to his side. “Then, of course,” he said casually, his eyes never once leaving Dax’s attentive face, “there’s the Horta’s very unusual reproductive cycle….”

  Oh, give me a break, Kira fumed. Typically, however, Dax stood by calmly, with her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Although Dax had a fun-loving side that Kira had learned never to underestimate, the Trill science officer often exuded a sense of effortless serenity that was almost spiritual. Not for the first time, Kira was secretly envious. Is Dax what Bajoran women were like, she wondered, before decades of Cardassian oppression transformed us into refugees and revolutionaries? Could I have ever known that kind of peace? Kira fingered the silver earring dangling from her right ear. The Bajorans had been a deeply religious people once. Kira liked to think she still was, and yet her spirit was often troubled.

  She paced impatiently back and forth across the waiting area. Her dark red boots rapped against the bare, uncarpeted floor. According to the display, the Puyallup was now a few minutes late. What the hell could be taking them so long? She had more important things to do than watch another of Bashir’s futile attempts to flirt with Dax.

  “I’ve heard,” Dax said to Bashir, “that the Hortas only breed once every fifty thousand years.” Kira groaned quietly and rolled her eyes. Sometimes she suspected that Dax actually enjoyed playing these games with Bashir. Kira wouldn’t put it past her; after all, the Trill genuinely enjoyed socializing with Ferengi.

  “That’s a common misconception,” the doctor explained. “It’s true that every five hundred centuries the entire species dies out, except for one Horta who cares for the thousands of eggs left behind, from which, eventually, a brand-new race of Hortas is born. But, prior to these epochal near-extinctions, there are interim generations of Hortas who reproduce regularly.”

  Frankly, Kira didn’t care whether each individual Horta emerged independently from some primordial lava flow, just so they performed as advertised, and found new treasures in Bajor’s pillaged mines. She almost said as much, but Jadzia, damn her, gave Bashir another too-perfect smile. “How intriguing, Julian. From a medical perspective, are there any advantages to this cycle?”

  “That’s a very perceptive question, Jadzia!” Bashir gushed. Kira prayed to all the Prophets that the Federation cruiser would arrive soon. She tapped her foot impatiently against the floor, wishing it were Bashir’s larynx instead. “Of course, the study of Horta biology is less than a hundred years old, but our best theory is that the cycle is a form of population control. Hortas are basically ageless, indestructible, and have no natural predators. Thus, every fifty millennia, one generation of Hortas disappears to make room for their descendants while the primary Mother Horta, selected through a process we still don’t entirely understand, provides a form of cultural continuity.” The young doctor leaned toward Dax, caught up by the joys of science, or hormones, or some combination thereof. “Think of it! To be the adopted mother to an entire new generation of beings. Imagine what the sense of responsibility …”

  “Well,” Kira interrupted him, hoping to forestall another dissertation. “I look forward to meeting the Hortas.” And soon, she prayed. Exhausted already by Bashir’s unending chatter, she found herself seriously contemplating the Cardassian-built bench, u
npadded metal slats and all.

  “You might want to brace yourself, Major,” Bashir said. Although addressing Kira, he edged even nearer to Dax. His dark eyes glowing, clearly convinced that the lovely Trill was hanging on his every word, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between the three of us, a Horta is not the most attractive of beings. In fact,” he said, winking at Dax and working very hard at being casually, shockingly, endearingly irreverent, “a fully grown Horta resembles nothing as much as an oversized slug made out of molten rock!”

  Abruptly, the smile disappeared from Dax’s lips. The station’s science officer remained poised and at ease, but her voice as she spoke was markedly colder than before. “Some of my closest acquaintances look like slugs, Doctor, as you may recall.” She turned her back on Bashir and gracefully walked away, a three-hundred-year-old symbiont sharing a fresh new humanoid body.

  The crestfallen look that came over Bashir’s face, as he suddenly realized his faux pas, was absolutely priceless, at least as far was Kira was concerned. Gone was the confident lecturer and ladies’ man of mere moments ago. “Jadzia,” he stammered breathlessly, “I didn’t mean … that is, I certainly never intended to … you know I have nothing but the highest respect for you and … well, if I can explain …!”

  From the other side of the room, and across as much empty space as possible, Dax glanced back at him over her shoulder. “By the way, Julian, I was excavating planetary cores alongside dozens of Hortas while you were still learning to crawl.”

  In other words, you cocky young fool, Kira thought, she’s been humoring you all along. This was getting more entertaining by the moment; she’d have to remember to tell Odo about it later. For the moment, Dax seemed to have rendered Bashir speechless. It wouldn’t last, of course, but Kira intended to enjoy the spectacle while she could.

  A short chime from her comm badge broke the momentary silence. Damn, Kira thought, just as Bashir was digging his own grave, with Dax maybe ready to throw in a few handfuls of dirt. The doctor had been saved, quite literally, by the bell. She patted the badge on her left collar. “Kira here.”

  Commander Sisko’s deep voice came over the comm. “We may have a problem, Major. Our sensors detect another ship on an intercept course with the Puyallup. The new ship’s not responding to our hails, and it appears to have come from Cardassian space.”

  Cardassian! Kira snapped into combat mode, all thought of Bashir’s infatuations and embarrassments instantly forgotten. Her fists clenched automatically. Glancing at the map on the wall, mentally adjusting for its various inaccuracies, she swiftly deduced the location of the nearest runabout. “On my way,” she told Sisko. “I’m taking Dax and Bashir on the new runabout, what’s it called, the Amazon.”

  “Understood,” Sisko replied. “Be careful.”

  Kira jerked her head toward the exit and took off at a steady run. She squeezed impatiently past the slowly rolling door as soon as a thin crescent of empty space opened up. Wordlessly, the two Starfleet officers followed quickly behind her. Bashir clutched his medical pouch as he ran after Dax and Kira. The Amazon waited in a service bay in the habitat ring, on the other side of the closest crossover bridge. Take the turbolift, Kira thought; that would be faster than on foot. In her mind, she was already at the helm of the runabout, racing away from the station, ready to engage the enemy once more.

  She had no problems with slugs—Horta, Trill, or Terran. Cardassians, on the other hand, were the closest thing to sentient slime she knew.

  Phasers fired in her imagination, blasting the slime out of existence. She was ready. She was willing.

  If only she could get there in time.

  * * *

  Titan’s large, lumpish body made a grinding sound as she tunneled toward the bridge of the Puyallup. The latter half of the small cruiser had been packed with lightweight synthetic concrete, the better to simulate the Horta’s usually solid environment, but Ttan sensed empty air only inches away. She burned through a narrow partition of concrete and slid down the corridor toward the bridge. Behind her, traces of vapor rose from the freshly created tunnel. As usual, the Nothingness her Federation allies called “an atmosphere” tickled the nerves of her outer carapace and made her feel uncomfortably exposed. Prime Mother, she entreated silently, let the worldstuff of Bajor be firm and hard.

  The doorway opened before her and she entered the bridge. A metallic semicircle large enough to accommodate a three-person crew, the chamber reeked to Ttan of tritanium and duranium. Good, solid construction, if a bit too airily spacious for her tastes. Captain Dawson rose from the command seat and greeted Ttan as the Horta rustled forward, her lower fringes brushing the cool, metallic floor. Dawson was a tall, stocky Terran whose jawline was decorated with a reddish fringe of its own. Ttan believed it was a male, but wasn’t quite sure. Humanoids were such peculiar entities: all carbon softness and pointy appendages. If it weren’t for their calcium framework, and a smattering of iron and other minerals, they’d bear no resemblance to life as she knew it.

  “Prospector Ttan,” it (he?) greeted her enthusiastically. “Thank you for joining us. We should be arriving at Deep Space Nine shortly.”

  “Fine Faring to you, Captain.” The Federation translator affixed to Ttan’s husk gave her a melodious voice with a slight East Indian accent. “And Smooth Voyaging to you as well, Navigator Shirar.”

  Ttan sensed the presence of the Vulcan navigator before Shirar stepped away from her console and into view. The currents of copper flowing through the navigator were unmistakable.

  “Greetings, Prospector,” Shirar said. Dark strands of protein fibers, neatly aligned in descending parallel rows, framed the Vulcan’s pale features. The points of her auditory organs—“ears,” Ttan recalled—were sharp as stalagmites. Previous conversations had made it clear to Ttan that Shirar was female. “I trust your offspring are well.”

  “Yes, very.” Ttan thought proudly of the twenty eggs tucked safely away in a small vault she had carved herself out of the concrete Starfleet had provided. “And many thanks once more for the extra shielding you devised for my pilgrim infants.”

  Shirar nodded her chin slightly. “Given the importance and relative fragility of your eggs, it was only logical to preserve them in a stasis field independent of regular ship systems.”

  “Not, I hasten to add,” Captain Dawson said, “that we anticipate any danger to your children. Still, it always pays to be careful, especially where little ones are concerned. I have three of my own, you know.”

  Three eggs? Ttan briefly reconsidered Dawson’s gender. Then the captain called her attention to the large viewscreen at the opposite end of the bridge. The visual display, which occupied nearly the entire forward wall, revealed a vast and terrifying blackness in which distant stars seemed to race past them like sparks thrown off by struck flints.

  The Emptiness Beyond the Emptiness. Ttan had experienced space before, but still that vast and endless void, so different from the subterranean home of her people, both thrilled and intimidated her. It was so open. How could any Horta survive without the reassuring, all-surrounding press of rock about her, and where, she wondered, had she found the courage to cross this immense absence in order to carve new tunnels on a distant world? Ttan felt a surge of pride and anticipation. What an opportunity to burn her mark into the Stone of Memory. And maybe, just maybe, centuries hence, she or one of her children might become the Prime Mother of the next Renewal? Ttan would never be so immodest as to admit such an ambition to any other living being, but if she truly strived and succeeded at the great task before her … well, she could always dream, couldn’t she?

  “Approaching DS9,” an eager young voice announced. A Benzite, Ttan realized, recognizing the distinct odor of chlorine from the artificial breathing apparatus affixed under the ensign’s chin. Although he was basically humanoid in shape, and clad in a standard blue Starfleet uniform, the Benzite’s face and hands were protected by a pale blue chitinous cover
ing with glistening silver undertones. His ears, located higher on his skull than either Dawson’s or Shirar’s, were also deeply recessed and less ornate than other humanoids’. Ttan was proud that she could identify them at all. With his smooth, hairless shell, the Benzite somehow seemed more convincingly alive than the other humanoids on the Puyallup, although of course Ttan was far too tactful to say so.

  “Go to impulse, Ensign,” Dawson instructed.

  “Yes, sir!” the Benzite responded, expelling a gust of carbon trichloride. Seconds later, the ever-present dilithium aftertaste Ttan had learned to associate with warp travel dissipated from the bridge. The streaking stars before her slowed in their fiery trajectories past the ship. They were almost there, she thought in wonder. Bajor: her new home and her children’s future birthplace.

  The fibrous mineral filaments around her base rustled with excitement as she edged nearer the viewscreen. Captain Dawson stepped beside her. He stroked the fringe under his own chin.

  “Let me show you one of the more interesting local sights,” he said cheerfully. “Ensign, lateral view, medium magnification.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young Benzite responded from his post. Instantly, the image on the viewer shifted, revealing what appeared to be a moon or planetoid much closer to the ship than the faraway stars. The moon was large and irregularly shaped, marked by a chaotic pattern of gray-brown peaks and shadowy craters, divided by intersecting veins of some rough, reddish material. Unlike most other moons, this object could not be described as a globe; unknown forces had deformed its mass, flattening its eastern hemisphere and causing the other half to stretch and protrude along random stress lines, like a human skull that has been smashed against a hard surface, with its shell distorted but barely holding together, and bits of soft tissue jutting out through the cracks. The moon’s coarse and mottled exterior suggested eons of violent volcanic activity, resulting in a cracked, scarred, and pitted terrain that had obviously never known the patient polishing of wind or water. In many ways, Ttan noted, the huge floating rock bore a distinct resemblance to a Horta. She wondered if that was why Dawson had invited her to the bridge.