TWR Chapter 5: Hall of Mirrors

Chapter 5: Hall of Mirrors

I walk into the sickbay on the Bajor to see the back of my opposite number.  She’s sitting on one of the exam tables stripped to the waist.  Tight, corded muscles flex under the skin as she looks over her shoulder and sarcastically asks, “See anything you like, Captain?”

I give her the hairy eyeball.  “I don’t swing that way.  Just saw you, is all.”

When we got back aboard Warragul insisted that she be brought straight to him for a full workup.  We’re not taking any chances with the other side trying to replace me like they’ve tried before.  She grabs the undershirt that goes with her Cardassian Guard breastplate and pulls it on over her head, then asks me, “Where’s the restroom on this tub?”

“Excuse me, tub?” I glare at her.

She grimaces.  “Sorry.”

I let her stew for a moment, then, “Computer, please direct Dal Kanril to the restroom.”  I focus on her again.  “Follow the green light at the baseboard.”

“Thank you.”  She grabs her breastplate off the coat rack and pulls it on, then walks out the door.

“Warragul!  Where are you?”

“My office, Cap’n!” a South Australian tenor voice answers.  I follow it into the sickbay’s admin office, where he’s waiting with Chief Corpsman Watkins and Dul’krah.
The three of them snap to attention.  “As you were.  Tell me about her.”

He scoffs.  “I might as well read off your own chart, Cap’n.  Apart from the lack of facial and abdominal knife scars, a replicated kidney, and associated residual trauma she’s exactly like you down to the genetic level.”

“Plus or minus a tiny fraction of a percentage point attributable to environmental mutation,” Watkins adds.  “And she’s about a centimeter shorter.”

“Does she represent a security risk?”

Dul’krah scratches at his left ear.  “I do not believe so, Captain.  Granted, we will have to change protocols to keep her out of classified areas of the computer memory, but that is as simple as creating a password.  However, it will slow down your access as well.”

“I want at least two of your people on her at all times.”

“I have already assigned Lieutenants McMillan and K’lak for the first shift.  She already knows them.  Second shift will be Chief Athezra and Security Officer Tran, third shift Ensign Runkaar and Security Officer Nurik.”  I nod approvingly.

“Something interesting, though, Captain,” Corpsman Watkins says.  “I touched her mind when I was taking her pulse.  Couldn’t help it; Betazoids are always-on.”

“Did you get anything useful?”    Watkins is only about a third Betazoid and her abilities are very limited.

“She doesn’t feel anything like you.  She feels like a born-and-bred Cardassian.  Her thought patterns—”

“You’re sure she’s Bajoran, though, right?”

She nods.  “Genetically and biologically, yes.  The differences are mostly psychological.”

Warragul continues, “She also had a poison capsule encased in a false back molar, which we removed.  Promazine, nasty stuff.  The Obsidian Order used it to keep their operatives from being taken alive.  Kills fast and disintegrates the body within a few hours, but it feels like your whole head is on fire until you cark it.”

“I’m sure she took exception to that.”

“Well, I managed to convince her of how seriously I take the Hippocratic Oath.  The lolly helped.”  He laughs at the look on my face.  “Jumja stick.  Seems she’s got as much of a sweet tooth as you do, Cap’n.”

“Okay, so we’re not completely different.  How is she physically?”

“She’s in extremely good shape, bar a few fresh and healing bruises consistent with full-contact hand-to-hand drills.  Cardies don’t skimp on physical training; they work their people even harder than we do.  She’s also got a device similar to our contraceptive implants, and she’s wearing a Cardassian betrothal pendant.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Thought the Cardassians tended not to allow enjoined women to stay on active service.”

Watkins gives me a look.  “Would you let that stop you, Captain?”  I consider, then shake my head.  “Her neither.  You and she have similar personalities from what I can tell.”

The intercom chirps and Tess’s voice comes through.  “Bridge to Sickbay.  Captain, we’re ready for the demo you requested.”

“All right, I’ll be there shortly.”

---

I step out of the turbolift onto the bridge and freeze.  Tess is pointing a phaser at me, with everybody else sitting at their stations, staring in either suspicion, fear, or in Biri’s case what looks like a stubborn refusal to burst out laughing.  “Why did I join Starfleet?” Tess demands.

“Tess, what the phekk are you doing?”

“Answer the question!”

I think back.  Right, the day we met, Vega.  “To piss off your thavan, wasn’t it?”

She promptly lowers the weapon and slides it into a holster belted at her waist.  “Sorry, ma’am.  Had to be sure.”

I just stare at her.  “You really think she can just replace me like that?”

“Terrans managed it with Kirk.”

“Kirk didn’t have a ten-year-old scar on his belly, Tess.  Next time you’re not sure, just ask me to pull up my shirt.”

“Told you,” Gaarra comments nonchalantly.

The Saurian at communications interrupts the repartee.  “Captain,” Esplin says, “I’ve got that conference call set up for you.”  I acknowledge her with a nod and a smile as Ja’rod and Gul Morag appear on the viewscreen.

The turbolift door slides open again behind me and the other me walks out.  “Tess, Dal Kanril Eleya,” I introduce her.  “Dal, my XO and tactical officer, Commander Tess Phohl.”

They lock eyes.  Tess’s antennae twitch and Kanril tenses.  Tess moves first, starting to swing a left hook, and Kanril drops into a ready stance I recognize as Sau’vikta Three from Cardassian military boxing, hands up, knees bent slightly.  They stay like that for two seconds or so, and then Tess stops and holds out her hand to my double.  “Good to meet you.”

“Uh, thank you, Commander,” she replies, taking the proffered hand gingerly.

“I think we’ll be all right, ma’am,” Tess says to me, curtly, and takes her place at the tactical officer console.

Kanril just stands there looking nervous for a bit, then tells me, “I’ve never actually spoken to an Andorian before.”

“Get used to it, there’s over sixty of us aboard,” Tess says without looking up.

“No time like the present,” Biri says, friendlier.  “Birail Riyannis, science officer.  Call me Biri.  And you’ve already met Gaarra, of course.”

“So what’s this demo you wanted me up here for?”

“Cloak Penetration 101, sir,” Master Chief Wiggin answers from his console.  “Now, obviously we don’t have anything to test it on, but it’s a well-proven technique on our side.  We picked it up from the Dominion.”

“The who?”

“I’ll explain later.”  I shoot Wiggin a dirty look.  Technically his slip of the tongue is a mild Prime Directive violation.  Rule number one is, never say any more than you have to.

Wiggin continues, “It’s an active sensor technique called an antiproton sweep.  Antiprotons resonate in a consistent, detectable way when they interact with a cloaking field.  Now, you can modulate the cloak to reduce the feedback, but it takes time and it’s difficult when you’re under attack.  Commander Reshek, you ready?”

“I was waiting on you, Master Chief.  Generating antiproton spread in five, four, three, two, one, mark.”

Wiggin rears back in his seat.  “Bloody hell!  We hit something!”

“Battle stations!”  I bellow.  “Lock torpedoes and fire!”

As a spread of quantum torpedoes screams from the forward tube, a pair of Defiant-class ships decloak seventy kilometers out and come hard about, burning hard towards us.  Their cannons defensively spit as one and the torpedoes are wiped off the map fifteen klicks short, and then they stretch into the distance and vanish into warp, rapidly boosting into the warp 10 asymptote.  “I’m locked on, Captain!”  Tess says.  “We can catch them!”

“Let them go, Commander Phohl,” Dal Kanril says.  “Too late anyway—they’ll have reported back over subspace already.”

“Is your name ‘Captain’?” Tess snaps at her.

“No, but mine is, and she’s right, there’s no point.  I think we can assume we’ve just lost the element of surprise.  The Terrans know we’re here now, they know what to look for.”  I bang my fist on the railing in frustration.

“Well, on the bright side, at least we know for certain your technobabble works,” Gul Morag remarks.  “What else can you tell us?”

“Well, let’s see.  A ship traveling under cloak at high warp produces minor fluctuations in local subspace, and there’s this little trick with tachyon beams…”

We finish up half an hour later, by which point additional Klingon and Cardassian ships have arrived.  They’re suspicious at first but Morag and Ja’rod talk them down.  There’s at least two familiar faces in the bunch, Guls Antos and Surjan from the Fifth Order.  Surjan informs me, “Supreme Legate Corat Damar has been informed of your presence, Captain Kanril.  He is not pleased.”

“Why, ‘cause he has to work with the Federation?”

“I’m sure Jagul-in-Waiting Morag has explained our history with your government.”

“Not this again—hang on, ‘jagul-in-waiting’?”

“The Seventh Order’s commander, Jagul Mekor Dukat, was gravely wounded in a Terran raid yesterday.  He was pronounced dead two hours ago.”

“My condolences.”

Antos smiles faintly.  “I will pass them to his widow.  In any event the Central Command is recommending Morag as his replacement.  Now, Captain, do you plan to help us strike back at the Terrans, or are we going to wait here for them to come and pick us off?”
“I’m not sure yet what we have to do.  The Prophets didn’t give me a whole lot of guidance.”

“Right, your so-called gods gave you an objective and no actual intel,” Dal Kanril grumbles behind me.

“Watch it,” Gaarra growls to my left.  “They’re on this side, too.”

“Okay then, if they’re so great, where were they when the Terrans showed up a century ago?”

I roll my eyes.  “Would you excuse me a minute, Gul Antos?”  I mute the microphone.  “Dal Kanril!” I snap, rounding on her.  “I’ll be perfectly happy to debate the finer points of theology with you at your convenience but right now I have a phekk’ta job to do!  Can it!”

She glares at me.  I know that look—it’s the same one I had on my face when I told Ambassador Dronk to phekk off at the Jenolan conference.  Before she can say what’s on her mind I fix her with my best Sergeant Implacable stare, the look that says, I don’t give a flying phekk if you’re Shakaar Edon himself; as far as I’m concerned you’re just another brainless boot who can’t tell which end of a combat knife goes into the other guy.  I learned from the best, and it works even better on the Bajoran in the Cardassian uniform than it typically does on a Starfleet newbie:  she suddenly snaps to attention and starts intensely studying the wall behind me.

Then she gets a confused look on her face.  “Hey, that’s cheating.”

“Do I have your attention?”  She nods.  “Then please leave my bridge unless you have something useful to add.”  Her face twists and I give her a slightly less sergeant-y look, and she whirls and stalks out the turbolift door with McMillan and K’lak hot on her heels.

I unmute the screen.  “Sorry, Gul Antos.”

He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.  “I’ve been telling Kerim for years he has a very insubordinate subordinate.”

I laugh at that.  “Trust me, sir, I’m even worse.  Now, about that sensor data.”

---

I leave Biri and Wiggin studying the Alliance sensor records for signs of the energy signature of an Orb of the Prophets and take a break, headed for the officers’ gym.

The other me is stripped to her form-fitting undershirt and a pair of borrowed sweatpants and is making a concerted effort to kill the punching bag.  “I hope that’s not supposed to be me,” I comment as I unzip my uniform jacket.

She stops pounding the bag and looks over at me, panting slightly.  “Captain, where the shtel did you learn how to do that?”

“Do what?”

“That look you gave me on the bridge.  I felt like I was dealing with Garresh Arken during First Stage after I was conscripted.”

“Oh, that.  You thought I was born wearing a Starfleet uniform?  No, I spent four years in the Bajoran Militia first.  Non-commissioned officer, naval gunnery tech.”  I take off my earring, yank my undershirt off, and dig my sweatpants out of the locker.

“Huh.  How’d you end up in Starfleet?”

“Politics.  Sort of.  Space Arm got shut down due to budget cuts and I wanted to stay blackside, so my CO arranged for a transfer.  ‘Conscripted’, huh?”

She nods, grabbing a water bottle next to her and taking a gulp.  “Cardassian Guard doesn’t do recruitment the way the Terrans do, and especially not the Klingons.  Anybody who scores over certain thresholds at secondary school graduation gets an offer they’re not allowed to refuse—either civil service or military depending, five years minimum.  They thought I had ‘leadership qualities’ so they made me an officer.”

“Was it what you wanted?”

She laughs derisively, gulps down some more water and waves a dismissive hand.  “Not about what I want.  It’s about what the State needs.”

“Right, service to Cardassia above all.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it.  Are the Cardassians on your side any different?”

“Not exactly, but they had a rough time in the Seventies.  Civilians revolted, military government got overthrown—”

“What?”  Disbelieving look on her face.

Kate McMillan explains, “The Obsidian Order kinda got itself blown up in ’71.  Um, Captain, do I have permission to—”

“She’s heard the name already and it’s not classified information.  A little late to be worried about the Prime Directive.”

McMillan nods.  “The Obsidian Order and the Romulans got together and tried to do a preemptive strike on a civilization in the Gamma Quadrant called the Dominion.  It was a trap—one of the op’s planners was a Dominion agent and they all got shredded.  A dissident movement took advantage and overthrew the Central Command.”

“Nonsense.”

“And that is exactly what our Klingons thought,” K’lak states.  “They invaded Cardassia and between them and a colonial insurgency in the Demilitarized Zone between the Union and the Federation, the Cardassians were driven into the arms of the Dominion, with some help from a traitor named Skrain Dukat.”

She raises an eyebrow.  “As in the former Supreme Legate?”

“On our side, officially he never rose past gul,” I correct her.  “But he told the Dominion he’d give them the Alpha Quadrant if they put him in charge of the Union.”

“Okay, who are these ‘Dominion’ characters, anyway?”  She starts pounding the bag again.

“Pray you never have to meet them,” I tell her seriously.  “It took two years and the three biggest governments on our side put together to deal with them, and over a billion and a half people were dead by the end, half of them Cardassian.”  I take a breath.  “If you’re still curious, you can look them up in the ship’s computer.  Short version, they’re run by shapeshifters with a self-appointed manifest destiny to bring ‘order’ to the galaxy,” and I drop air-quotes across the word “order”.

“No matter who gets in the way?  Sounds like the Terrans.”

I can’t argue with that.  “Anyway, the Cardassians eventually got sick of the Dominion and switched sides, helped us take them down.  Nowadays, the popular definition of ‘serving Cardassia’ is rehabbing their reputation and rebuilding from the war.  They’ve given up on being conquistadors for the most part.”

Then the intercom chirps.  “El, it’s Biri.  I found something.”

I press the key on the wall.  “Whatcha got?”

“I’m not completely sure yet, just a signal from a Klingon scout vessel in the Bavar system.  Give me and Astrometrics ten minutes or so to massage the numbers and I’ll know more.”

“All right, keep me posted.”  I curse under my breath.  So much for getting a good workout in.

Unless…  “Hey, Dal Kanril, how does a few minutes in the ring sound?”

She lands a roundhouse kick on the bag.  “You’re not serious.”

I grin at her.  “Consider it your chance to get me back for shutting you down earlier.  Come on, I need a workout but I’m short on time.”

She shrugs and tosses her towel aside.  “Best two out of three?”  I nod and we clamber up into the boxing ring on the side of the gym.

I drop into a loose ready stance; she matches me with Sau’vikta Three.  “That’s quite a scar,” she says, stalking to her left.

“Caught a knife during a boarding action,” I explain, matching her.  “Poison screwed with the dermal regenerator.  Same with the one on my face.”

“You weren’t wearing armor?  Not even a stab vest?”

“We were defending.  Didn’t have time.”

“Must’ve hurt like a son of a vole.”  Then she moves.  She rushes me but I’m no longer there, stepping forward and right.  I drop low and grab her legs and send her sprawling.
I pivot on a foot and drop on top as she turns over and rap her forehead with a knuckle.  “Good try, though,” I comment.  I grab her hand and pull her up.  “That’s one.”

“Yeah, that was careless.  Won’t happen again.”

We square off again, then she jumps forward and fires a punch at my midsection.  Block low right, kick left.  Intercepted with knee.  Sidestep, grab at upper arm.  She steps inside the charge, grabs my arm and throws me past her.  Rebound off the wire, running right haymaker to head.  Deflected into shoulder with right block.  I grunt as she knees me in the hip.  Fake left, right jab to midsection.  She grunts but traps the arm, knees me in the stomach and hits the back of my knee with a foot and my leg collapses and she drives me onto my back.  “One-one.”

I hold out an arm and she pulls me up.  “You’re using my moves.”

“Really?”

“Well, some of them,” I amend.

“I noticed that.  They teach chakar daran in Starfleet?”

“No, the Militia.  Although this Earth art Starfleet teaches is similar.  They call it Krav Maga.”

“I’ve heard of it.  The Terrans teach it, too.”  She backsteps and drops into a ready stance again, Sau’vikta Five this time, arms lower and wider.  “Final round, Scarface.”

“‘Scarface’?  You’re going down for that.”  I jump and tackle her to the ground.  She shoves me off and rolls and my fist hits the mat.  She kicks my hip and knocks me over and leaps to her feet as I absorb the kick, rolling clear, and pop up.

We start circling again.  I advance.  Fake jab right, parried with forearm, left punch to cheek and her head snaps back.  Right straight to the breast, left uppercut to chin, knee to stomach and the air whuffs out of her and she drops backwards.  I press my advantage, spinning to gain momentum, and kick her in the shoulder and she flies into the ropes.  She bounces off and lands an arm-bar across my chest as I knee her in the groin, and we both go down.

I lie there staring up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get the air back into my lungs, and hear somebody laughing.  I look over at her and she’s laughing despite the blood dripping out of her nose.  “Ha ha ha!  Whoo!”  She gets up on an elbow and wipes the line of blood off her mouth with the back of a hand.  “You’re good, Captain!”

“You’re not so bad yourself.  Call it a draw?”

“Sure.”

The intercom chirps again.  “Captain, Biri again.  I got what I needed.  Senior staff briefing in the conference room, fifteen minutes.”

“Got it.”  I roll to my feet and help Dal Kanril up.  “Want a dermal regenerator for that nose?”

“It’s already stopping.”

“All right, showers are this way.”

---

“Talk to me, Biri,” I tell the Trill as I sit down in my usual chair at the conference room’s curved table.  Guls Morag and Antos are also present, as is a Klingon general I’m not familiar with, a dahar master named K’Bor, son of QulDun, of the House of J’mpok.  Sitting at the end of the table?  Another familiar face, Koren, daughter of Grilka.  Dal Kanril sits next to her captain, off to my left.

Biri clicks to a system map.  “This is the Bavar system.  On our side it was an important stronghold for the Maquis but there’s not a whole lot there.  One marginally Class M planet, two smallish gas giants, and the rest is debris.  But we only care about the Class M.”  She clicks her remote.  “Commander Koren’s AKS QuHvaj’Qob—sorry, Koren, did I pronounce that right?”

“You did,” she confirms.

“Good.”  More good than she knows, considering what that turns into if you miss the glottal stop.  “Anyway, three days ago she found a previously unknown Terran base, and buried in her sensor records, Astrometrics Specialist First Class Kirvin Tors”—she gestures at a dark-skinned Perikian Bajoran noncom—“found an energy signature consistent with an Orb of the Prophets.”

“A what?” Koren asks, visibly confused.

She flicks to an image of the Orb of Prophecy and Change.  “We’ve never been completely sure.  They’re artifacts created by a race of beings that live inside a wormhole near here.  On our side the Bajorans believe they’re gods—Well, damn it, Kirvin, what do you want me to say about them?  We’re on the clock here!”

“Relax, Petty Officer Kirvin,” I tell him, gently but firmly.  “If you’re mad about it take it up with Prylar Simene.” He slumps back into his seat, still gritting his teeth.  “Sorry,” I tell the Alliance reps.  “It’s a touchy subject with my people.”

“Not you?” K’Bor asks.  He has a rumbling, gravelly voice.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” I answer, giving him a pointed look.  “But Commander Riyannis is not a member of our faith.  I don’t have the right to dictate what she can and can’t believe any more than she does us.”

“Thank you kindly, Captain.  Anyway, they’re objects with great power over space and time and the Terrans switched it with the one from this side.  Not sure when, not sure how, but according to the Captain’s Orb experience it’s how they’re keeping that portal in the outer system open.”

K’Bor leans forward.  “Allow me to skip forward.  You propose a planetary assault against a Terran surface base, based on a vision.”

“Yes,” Tess answers.

“I was not talking to you, anDorngan.  eleya HoD?”

“Tess speaks for me.”

He looks me in the eye.  I glare back at him.

Then he starts laughing, a deep, rumbling laugh that I feel in my bones, and Biri jumps when he slams his fist into the table, knocking over my water glass.  “Hah!  It is past time we take the fight to the tera’nganpu’!  We will fight with you, eleya HoD, and it will be glorious!”

Antos looks horrified.  “General, are you out of your mind?”

“Perhaps.  But I see this warrior before me and my blood rises.  She may be coddled and well-fed like the rest of the Terrans’ ilk, but she has heart, just like Gul Morag’s yaS wa’DIch.  I believe her, and I will call for additional forces.  How many troops do you have aboard your ship?”

“If you mean regular infantry?  None.  Starfleet doesn’t do ground assaults often enough.”

The other me lets out a derisive burst of laughter.  “So, what, we’re carrying you?”

“I didn’t say that!” I snap over my shoulder at her.  “What I do have is a unit of MACOs.  Elite Starfleet commandos trained for orbit-to-surface insertion, clearing LZs, that sort of thing.  And I’ll be on the ground with you, and you’ll have as many of my people with ground combat training as can be spared.”

“Like who?”

“Remember K’lak and McMillan, Dal Kanril?  They’re not just ship security, they’re my sniper team.  Thirty-four confirmed kills including seven I saw myself, and K’lak once shot a man off a hostage from 270 meters.  You’ll be the hammer but we’re the rapier.  I’ve also got combat engineers, an onboard industrial replicator, and a prefab field hospital better than anything you’ve got.”

Gul Morag looks to Dal Kanril and murmurs something in Cardassian that I don’t catch.  I get the gist of what she says back but it’s not fit for polite company.  I do hear a “yes” in there, though, and the hook-nosed gul turns to me.  “We’re in.”

“Morag!” Antos says in an almost pleading tone.

“What do you want me to say, Tekeny?  Cardassia has an opportunity here.  Forget the Orb for a minute—this looks to be a major Terran base, likely the source of operations we’ve been looking for in this sector block for months.  We take it quick enough, we get a lot of usable intelligence, and even if we don’t we eliminate a serious threat to our rear areas.  And you weren’t here to see Kanril fight, but she’s a good commander, and so far everything she’s said has held up.  I believe the potential reward is worth the risk.”

“I’m not moving without authorization from the Central Command.”  Morag throws a datacard on the table.  “What’s this?”

“Authorization from the Central Command placing me in overall command of our forces here, including your little flotilla.”

He stares at Morag.  “You’re pulling rank on me, Kerim?  After all the years we’ve served together?”

“If I have to.  I’d rather not.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Take it out on the Terrans.”

“Fine,” he grudgingly agrees.  “I’ll contact Jagul Figler and see if he can spare anything more from the Fifth Order.  I’m not holding out much hope, though—they got torn up pretty good at Goralis.  So did the Klingons.”

“Yes, and General B’Vat was captured, I know.”

“If he survived he will require many battles to regain his honor,” K’Bor comments.

“He’ll get them,” I assure him.  “Now that you can defeat the Terrans’ cloaks you should be able to start pushing them back without my help.  Let’s start planning the attack.”