Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Soul Key (12 page)

But no,
Iliana thought, shedding her newly germinated plans like springtime
nerak
petals.
There’s the balance to consider—the symmetry that needs to be maintained as I go to claim my destiny. That means first becoming Terok Nor’s master,
not its destroyer. And maybe…maybe there’s a way to achieve that and still pacify this grotesque fool, even with a smaller strike force….

“Very well,” Iliana said. “I’ll take what you offer…and I’ll return to you victorious.”

“See to it that you do, Intendant,” Martok warned. “For if you fail, it will better for you if you do not return at all.”

T
aran’atar dreamed.

He floated naked and weaponless beneath the surface of a golden ocean and knew that he was adrift in the divine substance of the Founders. It surrounded him and moved through him, buoyed him and pushed him outward until his eyes broke the surface of the Great Link and saw the black sky into which he’d been born to obey, and fight, and die.

But the Founders had not released him. Coated in their slick residue, they clung to him with viscous tendrils that stretched up from the surface of the Link. They entangled his body and his brain, infiltrating every muscle and every thought, restricting his movements, impeding his ascent.

Taran’atar looked out across the endless sea of his creators and remembered how the Founders he had known had denied their divinity, how they had led him to question what it meant to be a Jem’Hadar without gods. As the memories stirred, he felt the Link’s hold on him
ebbing, and he knew that he was close to understanding something important.

As quickly as the tendrils began to recede, they suddenly ceased their withdrawal, holding fast to his body; they darkened and transformed, as did the entire ocean below. No longer golden and fluid, the tendrils became dry ropes of streaming copper, fine strands that constricted his arms and legs, choked his windpipe, dragged him down into the flowing chaotic mass that had somehow usurped the Great Link, tainted it, smothered the answers he seemed so close to grasping. Their hold on him was indissoluble; he was paralyzed, an impotent shell of flesh and bone, powerless to act—powerless even to conceive of acting.

My mind to your mind…

It was only a whisper, but he heard it as if it came from very far away.

…Your thoughts to my thoughts…

Closer now. A presence that seemed to be approaching from everywhere and nowhere, even as more strands of copper lashed out from the hideous mass below and pulled him down.

Fight what you see. Fight what you feel. Follow my voice. Listen to me….

The voice was feminine, familiar.
Who are you?

I am L’Haan,
came the answer, as if she were there beside him.
I believe that I can help you. But I need you to help me in return.

You can help me how?

Close your eyes.

He strove to remember how to do that, but the
knowledge eluded him.
I cannot,
he told her somehow, speaking without speaking.

You can,
L’Haan insisted.
You fail because your altered mind will not permit you to follow the commands of anyone but her. But I do not seek to command you, Taran’atar. I merely offer an idea, and I invite you to make the choice to close your eyes.

Not a command. An idea. A choice.

Somehow, Taran’atar closed his eyes.

Well done,
said L’Haan.
When you’re ready to open them again, things will seem different.

Taran’atar opened his eyes. He was no longer ensnared. The black sky and endless red ocean were gone. He was simply standing in the midst of nothingness.

Facing him was the stoic figure of L’Haan.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“You are still asleep in the Intendant’s quarters aboard the
Negh’Var.
I’ve risked reaching out to you with a mind-meld, helped you from your dreamstate into one closer to wakefulness, in order to make a proposal.”

“You betrayed your last master. Now you wish to betray your new one.”

“I have no master,” L’Haan claimed. “My servitude is pretense. I am in reality a member of a secret movement that seeks a fundamental reordering of this part of the galaxy.”

Images invaded Taran’atar’s mind, memories: He saw a corrupt and decadent stellar empire, stagnating and doomed to inevitable ruin; he saw the rise of a bearded Vulcan, his vision of a better world, and the complex plan of historical inevitability—ebb and flow, action and reac
tion, choice and consequence—that he had set in motion in order to achieve it. Taran’atar saw it all, spooled through his consciousness at lightning speed, delivered in a single blinding instant of revelation.

“And you hope to recruit me into your cause?” Taran’atar asked.

“No,” L’Haan said. “I wish only to ask your help in correcting the mistake I made by helping to bring you and the false Intendant into my universe.”

Taran’atar watched as the Vulcan’s impassive face became uncharacteristically creased with regret as she paused before continuing. “I thought that by bringing her here I would be accelerating the political and social change toward which my group works. My plan was to replace my Intendant with one who would be sympathetic to our cause.”

“You misjudged her,” Taran’atar said.

L’Haan nodded. “This new Kira is as malign, if not more so, than the one she murdered. I understand now that her agenda against the Alliance is a self-serving one. In my arrogance and impatience, I fear that rather than advancing my people’s plan, I may have put it at risk.” She paused again, her dark eyes both probing and pleading. “Now, to repair the damage I have done, I look to you.”

“What exactly do you wish me to do?” Taran’atar said.

“What I cannot do without risking the exposure of my movement: kill her.”

“She is my god.”

“Is she? Are you sure of that?” L’Haan asked. “Is her
claim to your obedience truly any greater that that of your previous gods, these ‘Founders’ I saw in your mind, the creatures who denied their own divinity to you? The beings who banished you into the unknown so that you might learn to redefine your entire state of being?”

Banishment,
Taran’atar thought. Was that truly what his gods had done to him? And how could anything other than continued obedience to his gods bring him succor?

Speaking in patient tones, L’Haan pressed on. “I perceive the conflict within you, Taran’atar…the thing that was done to make you forsake your true gods for another…to abandon your purpose in order to serve her will.”

“My life is hers,” Taran’atar said. “That is the new order of things.”

“If the old order can change, then so, too, can the new,” L’Haan said insistently as she closed the already narrow distance between them. “That is an axiom we have in common, I think. And I believe that I can offer you an alternative to the order of things.”

“What alternative?”

“Consider how I empowered you to escape your dream. I believe my telepathic skills can help you to do much more than that. I can break the hold she has on you. Your choices will forever afterward be your own. No one will have a claim on your loyalty, your obedience, or your enmity ever again, unless you choose to give it to them. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Taran’atar? You’ll be free.”

Free.

Every time he heard the word, it sounded more profane than it had before. Within the Dominion, freedom was synonymous with chaos. It was anathema. Yet he also knew that many, particularly among the humans of the Alpha Quadrant, prized their freedom more highly than they did life itself. Odo had told Taran’atar that he wished him to understand that perspective, to somehow apply that insight to himself so that he might provide a template for the future of the Jem’Hadar species as the Dominion learned to live in peace with its galactic neighbors.

But such a fundamental change was contrary to the design, the very concept underlying the Jem’Hadar’s creation. They had been engineered to be the perfect soldiers, their purpose pure, their loyalty unassailable. What sort of future, then, had Odo imagined was really possible for them?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. For if the Founders were not gods, then the perfection of the Jem’Hadar was a lie. If the Founders were not gods, then Taran’atar’s mission to Deep Space 9 had been a farce from the beginning. If the Founders were not gods, then perhaps Odo was wrong, and the Jem’Hadar really
had
no future, only an unending gray present.

A future that was defined solely by the function for which they were created.

To obey. To fight. To die.

And with that acceptance, Taran’atar paradoxically made a choice. He closed his eyes again, exerted his will, and bore down on L’Haan, driving her from his mind and forcing himself into a state of full and complete wakefulness.

He opened his eyes in the near darkness of the Intendant’s quarters, where he still leaned against the bulkhead in the spot where he’d fallen into sleep. He stood at the edge of the panoramic viewport, past which the stars still streaked as they had ever since the
Negh’Var
had departed from Raknal Station. L’Haan stood before him, her fingers still touching the sides of his face. Her eyes suddenly widened with the understanding of what he had done, but too late.

In a blur of motion, Taran’atar slapped her hands away from his face. He spun her around and pulled her close, clamping one hand over the Vulcan’s mouth, and the other against the back of her head.

“I was never meant to be free,” he whispered into her ear, just before he snapped her neck.

Then he flung the body away from him and went back to his nightmares.

“T
hat thing should be put to death.”

“Now, Kurn, be reasonable,” Iliana purred from the guest chair in the general’s office.

“I want that creature off my ship,” Kurn demanded. “It introduces an element of…uncertainty that I will not tolerate.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to tolerate it, General. Taran’atar isn’t going anywhere.”

The Klingon bared his teeth. “You brought it aboard without my knowledge or consent! Now it has killed your own handmaiden!”

“You heard what he told us,” Iliana said. “L’Haan planned to betray me. Taran’atar may have responded to that threat impulsively, but it was the
correct
response. As long as you and your men remain loyal to me, you have nothing to fear from him.”

“Do not insult my honor, Intendant,” the general warned her. “My men and I fear nothing, and our loyalty—”

“Your loyalty was negotiated, General,” Iliana re
minded him. “So let us forgo the posturing, shall we? This is about your having come to appreciate just how dangerous Taran’atar can be when it becomes necessary. That’s good, because now you know you can believe what I’ve told you about what we have to gain by finding his people.”

“I now also know what we have to risk,” Kurn said. “I’ve looked into the creature’s eyes, Intendant. That thing is soulless. And when it chooses not to obey you anymore, it will not differentiate friend from foe.”

“He can’t make that choice, Kurn. He’s bent to my will. I control him, and when we find the others of his kind, I’ll control them just as completely. Imagine it…an army of creatures like Taran’atar, led by you as you go into battle against Martok and Dukat, to claim the glory that has wrongfully been withheld from you. And when the dust settles, there’ll be no more Alliance—just a single, all-encompassing, invincible imperium…led by us.”

Kurn’s eyes glittered with the possibilities, though they were still tinged with doubt. “I will not lie to you, Intendant. I crave what you offer. But there is much I still do not understand about our undertaking. You tell me that we seek a stable wormhole within the Bajoran system that will take us to the region of the galaxy where the creature comes from. Why then, should we even bother with the rebels on Terok Nor?”

“Because there is far more to be achieved here than just the conquest of the Alliance. The wormhole will open the way not just to the other side of the galaxy, but
also, when we’re ready, to the other universe. Retaking Terok Nor is merely the first step toward those ends. That’s why the dimensional static field your engineers are working on is so important, General, and why it has to be finished before we enter the B’hava’el system. I won’t risk interference by those meddlesome alternates before we’ve achieved our goals here.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that the tests on the static field have already been completed,” Kurn said. “It will be ready to deploy by the time we reach Bajor. But why do you fear invasion by the alternates now? They shrink from confrontation.”

“No, Kurn. They don’t. They’re coming. Or they’ll try to, at least.”

Kurn eyed her suspiciously. “How do you know this?”

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” Iliana asked as she rose from the chair and stretched lasciviously. “What
does
matter, though, is that you’ve given me your trust up to now, and that it would only hurt you if I were to lose that trust when we have both gotten so close to achieving everything we want.”

Kurn strode toward her and stood very close, breathing in her scent. “You
could
reassure me,” he said with a suggestive leer.

“I could,” Iliana said, forcing a grin as she slinked away, just out of his reach. “But you ordered our fleet to maintain combat readiness from the moment we departed Raknal, and with good reason. Remember, our enemies could attack at any moment. What sort of message would it send to the crew of the
Negh’Var
if its
commander were to lead them into battle without his pants on?”

“I’ll risk it,” Kurn said as moved toward her.

“Bridge to General Kurn.”

Kurn growled, halting as he answered the comm. “What do you want?”

“We’ve reached the rendezvous coordinates, sir. The Union vessel
Aldara
is ready to transfer its prisoner to us. Your presence is requested on the bridge.”

“On my way,” Kurn snapped, and Iliana breathed a discreet sigh of relief. Taran’atar was in her quarters, and she feared she might be forced to kill Kurn herself if his lust got the better of him.

The frustrated look on his face told her how narrowly he had avoided forcing the matter with her. “There are times, Intendant, when I believe you are a demon sent to madden me,” he said. “Where do you want me to put our…guest?”

“Visitor accommodations on deck six should be adequate,” Iliana said, making an effort to sound casual.

“The same level as your own suite,” Kurn observed. “Should I be jealous?”

She suddenly dropped all pretense of enjoying their banter and offered him an icy glare. “What you should do is remember your place, General.”

Kurn’s eyes narrowed slightly at the rebuke. “Then I trust you will not object if I post guards outside his quarters. Whatever you hope to learn from him, he is not to be trusted.”

Iliana waved her assent as if it was of no consequence, and the general left for the bridge. She watched him go,
thinking that perhaps eliminating Kurn at some point—perhaps sooner rather than later—would be in her best interests, after all.

Ignoring the two scowling Klingon soldiers who flanked the doorway to the guest quarters on deck 6, Iliana barked her access code into the bulkhead-mounted panel. It wasn’t at all difficult to forget about the hulking armored sentinels that stood on either side of her; the moment she glimpsed the man on the other side of the sliding hatch, she instantly forgot about everything else.

He was sitting on the protruding hard shelf that passed for a bed aboard every Klingon warship she had ever seen, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the deck in apparent contemplation. He looked up at her as the door opened, his face leaner and harder than the one she remembered, but in a pleasing way. His shapeless orange prison fatigues failed to hide his lean and powerful physique, which clearly did not need to be accentuated by the flattering shape of Cardassian military armor.

Ataan appeared to have aged very well indeed.

“May I come in?” she asked quietly.

He frowned and nodded, clearly puzzled by the courtesy, as well as more than a little suspicious of it. As Iliana stepped inside, he rose to his feet in a show of either respect or defiance, or perhaps both.

Iliana let the door slide closed behind her before she spoke again. “Please sit down,” she told him.

He did as she asked, and she took the single chair with which the small cabin had been outfitted. The bareness
of the room reminded Iliana of the stark cell she’d been assigned when she had first joined the Obsidian Order.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Iliana thought she knew what she would say when she went to see him, but now that the moment was finally upon her, she was finding it hard to recall how she wanted to begin.

Fortunately, Ataan spared her the trouble. “I understand I have you to thank for my release,” he said.

“That’s right,” Iliana said. Her throat was dry, and her words came out as a sandpaper whisper. She swallowed and tried again. “That’s right,” she repeated, more clearly this time. “The charges against you—conspiracy, murder, treason, all of them—have been summarily dropped.”

Frowning, he folded his arms across his chest. “May I ask why?”

“Does that really matter?”

Ataan’s eyes panned quickly across his surroundings before his gaze settled again on Iliana. “If I’m to understand my unusual new circumstances—being brought aboard this ship at the summons of Bajor’s Intendant—then yes,” he said, smiling crookedly. “It really
does
matter.”

“I see your point,” Iliana said. “Regent Martok has tasked me with investigating rumors of sedition on Bajor—”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Ataan said firmly.

“—and I was able to persuade the regent that you could be quite helpful in that regard,” she continued,
speaking over his denial. “Any assistance you could provide would certainly help in my vindicating you.”

“I thought you said I had been exonerated.”

“I said that the
charges
had been dropped,” Iliana reminded him. “I never said that anyone really believes you’re
innocent.”

“I see. But if that’s the case…then it seems likely that if I
were
able to offer you assistance, Intendant, it would simply confirm the suspicions surrounding me.”

“I can promise you it won’t. In fact, if you agree to help me, I give you my word that your status and reputation will be completely restored, and your record expunged.”

“I’m not sure I can believe that.”

“You underestimate me.”

Ataan studied her face. “Maybe I do. Certainly Corbin Entek did, not to mention Director Lang and the Supreme Legate of Cardassia.”

Iliana tipped her head in a gesture of mock modesty. “Word travels fast.”

“Of course. Intendant Kira of Bajor has a far-reaching reputation.”

Iliana chuckled. “Well, I hope I can convince you that not all of it is deserved.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why would you hope to convince me of anything? And why
me,
Intendant?”

“As I’ve tried to explain…I believe we can help each other. I want you to trust me.”

That seemed to catch Ataan off guard. “I’m beginning
to believe what you said about your reputation. You’re not at all what I expected, Intendant.”

“Then I’d say we’ve already made a good beginning,” Iliana said. She rose to leave, realizing that she needed to avoid putting too much pressure on Ataan or moving too quickly.

Pausing near the door, she said, “I’ll leave you to think about my offer. In the meantime, I’ll arrange to have some decent food and more suitable clothing brought to you. We’ll be arriving in the B’hava’el system in two days’ time, but I hope we’ll be able to continue our conversation sooner than that.”

“I’ll consider it,” he told her, his expression guarded.

Iliana nodded and smiled at him. “Then, pleasant rest, Ataan.”