| abstract | - “Gul Morag!” Glinn Eldrin exclaims from sensors, “reading one Terran battlecruiser, Harbinger-class, off our port quarter, five minutes out! Transponder decrypted as ISS Conqueror!” “Shtel,” my commander mutters under his breath. “Akira Sulu’s ship. Helm! Hard to starboard, emergency power to impulse drive. Let’s polish off the Interceptor before they get here.” On the tactical plot the Koranak banks right, bringing the bow around to target the Defiant-class destroyer dogging the Hurgh’ragh. Fire hisses into our aft shields from the Wauja-class cruiser that was acting as bait, but we swiftly pull out of range of its damaged weapons. “Target locked,” I report. “Fire, main spinal mount,” he confirms. I hammer my key. A sun-bright stream of energy lances out at the destroyer from our spinal disruptor and collapses the aft shield, just as the pancake-shaped ship opens fire with its cannons and turns the bird-of-prey into so much scrap metal. I curse, then boost power to the emitter and fire again, vaping the son of a bitch in a blinding flash, its warp core a momentary sun going nova. We were on patrol on the border when we picked up a distress signal from a Cardassian freighter. There was no freighter; it was a Terran trap. I don’t think they were expecting a patrol as heavy as ours but we got shot up pretty badly anyway. Now it’s just us and the Kang left. “Additional sensor contacts!” Eldrin calls. “One Terran heavy cruiser, Sato-class, one line-battleship, Galaxy-class, bearing one-two-seven by zero-three, approaching at warp 9.92! Arrival times, two minutes and two-fifteen!” “Sir,” Dalin Damar says from his station, “we can’t stay here! There’s no way we can challenge a Galaxy-class battleship with this much damage! If they take us alive—” I snarl at him, “You move from that chair and you’ll learn I’m worse than any Terran! We are staying! Bak’rikan!” I finish in Cardassian. “Helm, continue turn and prepare to take the cruiser and battleship head-on. Ja’rod, where the shtel are you?” “I’m on your wing, Morag,” the Klingon’s voice comes through the comms. “And we shall die with honor!” I always expected I’d die a flaming death in battle. I check to make sure my suicide capsule is secure in the socket of the back molar taken by the Bureau of Identification in my childhood. Despite my brave face to Damar, I know what the Terrans do to female prisoners. Reassured that I won’t be taken alive if they board, I turn to Gul Morag. “It has been an honor serving alongside you, sir.” He turns and gives me one of his rare smiles. “We die free, Dal. And we die well, for Cardassia. I would choose no other officer to share my last moments with.” “What the—” Eldrin starts to say. “Yes, Glinn?” “Gul Morag, I just noticed something odd. The course of the heavy cruiser and the battleship would have taken them past where we were. And the Galaxy-class seems to be—” Suddenly he exclaims, “Sir, the battleship just opened fire on the cruiser!” “What?” I exclaim, looking to the plot. The Galaxy-class slams the smaller Sato-class ship with a dozen salvos of searing orange phaser fire from its forward emitters. The cruiser returns fire but to no avail. Its aft shields shatter under the unrelenting barrage and the vessel is swiftly cut to pieces. Escape pods boil off of what’s left of its flanks, voles fleeing a sinking ship, as the huge battleship reshapes its warp field and changes course towards the Conqueror. “Why would the Terrans destroy one of their own ships?” Then it occurs to me that a standard Terran Galaxy-class can’t possibly manage the speed they’re pulling: It’s too heavy for their current drives. “Gul Morag,” the communications officer says, “we’re being hailed.” “Onscreen.” “Vidcomm’s out.” “Then take it on audio,” I tell him. The voice is female, contralto like mine, but distorted by the aftereffects of the Terrans’ jamming. “Alliance vessels, this is the Federation Starship Bajor. Looked like you could use some backup. We are moving to intercept ISS Conqueror.” There’s stunned silence for a moment, then Gul Morag speaks. “USS Bajor, this is Gul Kerim Morag of the Cardassian Seventh Order, CDS Koranak. Your assistance is most appreciated. Captain Ja’rod, coordinate your fire with the Bajor; we’ll handle the Punisher. Strike now, for Cardassia!” Even in other realities, some things never change. “All right, Tess, that’s an Emissary-class cruiser, or whatever they call it over here. Looks like basically the same as our side, maybe it’ll have the same weaknesses.” “Aim for the pylons and the secondary shield projector,” she confirms. Her console pings. “Oh, good. That was damage control. Phaser One’s fixed.” “Time to intercept?” “One minute,” Wiggin says. “Wait, reading change in Conqueror’s warp field. They’re turning, coming at us head-on. I think they figured out we’re not friendly.” “Ensign Esplin, jam their transmissions. Tess, you may fire at will.” With the comms arrays filling local subspace with static, the Bajor comes streaking in. The Conqueror drops to sublight, probably hoping we’ll overshoot, but Park crash-translates and we fall out of warp and open fire, a mighty lance of overcharged nadions rushing along the ventral array from both ends and whipping out into space, slicing through the chaos of the energy released from our shattered warp field and hammering into the enemy cruiser’s shovel-shaped prow. A Vor’cha-class battlecruiser, this universe’s version of the IKS Kang I suppose, screams in from our starboard and sprays cannon fire and torpedoes. The Conqueror returns fire. Now that I’ve actually got time to think about it, I can see what Wiggin was talking about as far as cognitive dissonance—my brain is screaming “friendly fire”. We flash past them and come hard about, crossing the T on their aft array and laying into them with a full broadside. “Biri! Tractor beam!” “Locked!” Pale blue streams of focused gravitons reach out and close an inexorable grip on the Emissary-class ship, tearing at their shields. “Kanril to Ja’rod, concentrate your fire on this area!” “Kanril? What?” “Just do it!” The Kang comes around for another pass and disruptor fire hammers into the enemy ship. The Conqueror’s rear torpedo launcher fires a spread. “Tess, point-defense!” “Online!” One of the phasers swats down three of the four in rapid succession and the fourth fails to acquire amid our ECM, streaking straight past our bow and into deep space. Park holds us in their rear arc and Tess keeps hammering them. “Enemy shields failing!” “How are we doing?” “Starboard shields at 72 percent!” “Conn, come about! Tess, load torpedo tube! Full spread as she bears!” She confirms the order as a message comes in from the Koranak. “Target eliminated. We are moving to assist you!” “Yeah, don’t bother, I think we’ve got it under control. Tess, fire.” A final barrage of disruptor bolts from the Kang collapses the aft shields as five quantum torpedoes scream out of the tube and slam into the Emissary-class cruiser’s unprotected hull. One smashes the starboard nacelle off. The second and third blow craters amidships. The fourth crashes into the hull between the pylons, and number five smashes right in behind it. The warp core breaches and the entire back half of the kilometer-long vessel vanishes in a searing white flash, a radiation pulse washing over our shields. “Wiggin, any survivors?” “Negative, sir.” “Captain,” Esplin says from her station, “Captain Ja’rod is hailing us.” “Onscreen.” I remember being on the opposite side from this face a number of times in the Klingon War. We left his ship dead in space twice that I recall. Have to remember that they’re not the same person. The first word out of his mouth when he sees me is a profanity: “Ql’yah!” He looks like he’s seen a wraith. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, that’s not very nice.” I gesture at Tess. “She’s just an Andorian.” She punches my shoulder. “Ow.” “qatlhIj,” he apologizes. “I did not expect… Ahem.” “eleya, torvo puqbe’ jIH,” I introduce myself. “HoD bajor yuQjIjDIvI’ ’ejDo’.” “You speak my tongue well, Captain.” “Job requirement, Ja’rod, son of Torg.” “QaHlI’ta’ jItlho’, eleya HoD.” Another Klingon comes into view and whispers in his ear. “Gul Morag wishes to speak with you in person.” I look over to Tess, who nods. “That can be arranged. I have to go check in with damage control, but I can be there in, say, thirty minutes?” I leave Tess in charge, and Gaarra, McMillan, K’lak, and I materialize in the transporter room of a Galor-class cruiser. Looks about the same as the ones on our side of the fence. A tall, slightly overweight Cardassian male with their typical short, slicked-back hairdo and a gul’s insignia on his breastplate stands there, flanked by a trio of armored guards with disruptor rifles leveled. I glare at the fat one and icily tell him, “Gul Morag, I presume? Why don’t you have Larry, Curly, and Moe point those toys someplace else?” Morag looks apologetic and tells his guards, “It’s all right, she’s not going to pull anything here.” He looks to me. “Right?” I look at him askance and answer, “Believe it or not we’re on the same side here. The Terrans have something that belongs to us and we want it back.” “Do you swear that on your honor as a Starfleet officer?” Curly asks. The other two already have their weapons at rest. “Damn it, Ghemor, lower your weapon,” Morag angrily orders. Curly complies, reluctantly. “My apologies, Captain.” He looks me up and down. “Ja’rod said, and I didn’t believe it, but by Cardassia, you really do look like…” He trails off. “What are you talking about?” “Eh, you’ll find out soon enough. This way, please.” “This one is Klingon, sir. And yet he works with Terran scum.” Moe is probably referring to McMillan. What an incredibly astute grasp of the blazingly obvious. K’lak says coldly, “I have sworn my honor to the service of the Federation. I would suggest you do not make an issue of it, qarDaSngan.” He spits the last word out like its very pronunciation tastes bad. He’s never much liked the Cardies. Almost as an afterthought he adds, “And if you call my parmaqqay ‘scum’ again, I will have your moQDu’ as a trophy for my quarters.” Ew. We follow Morag out the door and down the corridor. “Captain,” McMillan whispers to me as we go, “where in the hell did you hear of The Three Stooges?” “Academy roommate was a fan. Her payback for me dragging her off to a Serenity screening.” “In here, please,” Morag says, gesturing to an open door labeled “Conference Room” in Cardassian. We enter and all four of us freeze instantly. “Sher hahr kosst!” I exclaim. So does the person I’m looking at. Sitting to the left of the place I’m assuming is reserved for Morag is… me. Only not quite. On a second look I can see the differences. There’s no scar on her cheek, her hair’s cut short instead of long and in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a Cardassian Guard uniform. And I hope to the Prophets I don’t have that expression on my face. “Captain Kanril Eleya,” Morag announces, “this is my first officer, Dal Kanril Eleya.” “Captain?” the … other me says in a disbelieving tone. “There was a Borg attack involved,” I answer. “Dal. That’s the Cardie version of a commander, right?” “Your point being?” “Just making conversation.” I pause. Wow. I’ve got a counterpart on this side, and she’s Cardassian Guard. “So, who are your friends, Captain Kanril?” I catch her eyeing Gaarra and I recognize the little predatory glint in her eye. Dammit, stay focused, Eleya. “This is my ops officer, Lieutenant Commander Reshek Gaarra, and two of my security officers, Lieutenants Kate McMillan and K’lak.” “So, do you still get to live on Bajor?” “You don’t?” “Never even been there. Born and raised in Lakarian City. My parents fled Bajor when the Terrans took Terok Nor.” “Ahem,” Morag interrupts. “Dal Kanril will be your liaison for this mission, Captain.” Her: “Oh, no, sir, I don’t think—” Me: “Gul Morag, we don’t need a—” “This is not up for discussion,” he says with finality. He glares at the other me and she subsides, then he turns his glare on me. “Captain Kanril, let me be blunt. While I do appreciate the assistance, that does not mean I in any way like you. The last time we had dealings with someone from your side the end result was a new Terran Empire, as vile as the last but now they’ve got cloaking devices.” “Oh, give me a break, you can’t hold me responsible for that. My parents hadn’t even started dating when that mess happened. Also, I recall from my briefings on this reality that your side started it? Something about Intendant Kira enslaving one of our officers and trying to use the other for a body double-slash-phekktoy?” “Oh, I accept that your Julian Bashir and Kira Nerys executed their duties as prisoners of war, and I personally don’t blame them. Intendant Kira was a narcissistic psychopath, and her death appropriately horrific. But the collateral damage from that and the various other … interactions between us has been horrendous.” Captain Ja’rod, or his double anyway, crosses his arms. “The Empire took heavy casualties in our last war ten years ago and we technically won, but our losses were heavier by all measures and they are regaining their strength and using cloakship raids to disrupt our attempts to rebuild. We will fight and die with honor, but even our most optimistic projections suggest that the next war can at best be fought to a draw.” “About that, I think we can help you even the odds somewhat.” “Are you saying you can provide us with cloaks of our own?” Morag asks. “No,” I tell him firmly. “Even if I personally had that data I’d be breaking several regs and disobeying standing orders from my commander-in-chief, and I’d probably be in violation of the Prime Directive, too.” “The what?” the other me asks. K’lak answers for me, “The highest principle of the Federation. We are not to interfere in the natural development of other cultures unless the potential harm from interfering is outweighed by the harm from not interfering.” “I can’t tell you how to build a cloaking device, but I can tell you how to beat the ones the Terrans have. They reverse-engineered their cloaks from one they got from the Klingon Empire on our side. Now, the Federation and the Klingons are sort of allies at the moment—” “That’d take too damn long to explain,” Gaarra interjects. “—but we’ve had more than our share of—I’m gonna go with—less-than-cordial encounters and had to learn to beat their cloaks. I can teach you some of the tricks we’ve learned.” “What do you want in return for this data?” Morag asks with some suspicion. I turn my head to him and jerk my head in the direction of Larry, the head of the Koranak’s troop contingent if I’m reading the script on his breastplate correctly. My Cardassian’s a little rusty. “How about we start with your friend over there not looking at my security officer like she’s something that got stuck to the bottom of his boot? Call it a show of good faith.” “And this doesn’t violate your so-called Prime Directive?” the other me asks. “We’re not allowed to interfere in internal matters without invitation, and sometimes not even then,” Gaarra explains, “but if there’s damage done by an outside party we can step in to mitigate it, especially on humanitarian grounds. The cloak the Terrans acquired and reverse-engineered was given to them illegally by our Ferengi. Outside-context interference, ergo not covered by the Prime Directive. And I would venture to guess the collateral damage from the Terrans’ raids has been pretty high?” “They’re not picky about their targets. Never have been.” “Then we’ve got a humanitarian argument in our favor, too,” I confirm. “Once the Terran raiders’ losses start to spike, they’ll work out that you can suddenly see their cloakships and pull back. It’ll give your side some breathing room and reduce civilian casualties.” “We could just take the data, sir,” Larry says to Morag. “No, you couldn’t,” I icily reply. “First of all, in your current state the Bajor outguns both of your remaining ships put together. Second, our cyberwarfare tech is way better than yours so you’ll have to physically board us. My XO has orders to erase the files if they pick up any unauthorized transporter signatures, and you’ll never get a shuttle docked in one piece. Third, quit testing my patience, you moron.” “Yes, do stop antagonizing our guests, Dalin Bastra,” the other me says in a condescending tone, before turning to Morag. “Sir, it’s up to you but I’m inclined to take the offer.” The gul pinches his chin for a moment, then nods once. “Captain Kanril, on behalf of the Seventh Order of the Cardassian Guard, I accept your gift in the spirit it was intended.” “I’ll have my people send you the data when I get back to my ship. Now, can we talk about the reason I actually came over here in the first place?”
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