The Battle of Betazed

  “COUNSELOR TROI,” TEVREN SAID SOFTLY. “TO WHAT DO I OWE THIS HONOR?”

  “We’re getting you out of here,” Deanna said.

  Tevren’s attention was on Vaughn and the others. “I’m guessing you’re with Starfleet,” he said with some amusement. “Now, why would Starfleet be interested in me?”

  Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Tevren chuckled, delighted. His eyes went back to Troi. “You look haggard, Deanna, and it’s more than just the years, I suspect. War going badly, is it? Things unpleasant back home? Coming here when the place is infested with Jem’Hadar is quite a feat. Some might even call it an act of desperation.”

  “Tevren, we don’t have time—”

  “Make time,” Tevren suggested. “This is all quite a fuss over someone no one ever wanted to see again. Unless, of course, I have something you want? That’s it, isn’t it?” And with that, his eyes gleamed. “They need me back home. They want to know what I know.”

  THE BATTLE OF BETAZED

  Charlotte Douglas & Susan Kearney

  Based upon STAR TREK and STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION created by Gene Roddenberry

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore Betazed

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com/st

  http://www.startrek.com

  Copyright © 2002 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-3435-8

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  To Marco Palmieri, who made this book possible; with special thanks to Keith DeCandido

  Historian’s Note

  This novel takes place approximately two months after the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode “Tears of the Prophets,” and a few months before the events of Star Trek: Insurrection.

  Prologue

  SARK ENAREN HAD VOLUNTEERED for a suicide mission. Scanning the heavens surrounding his homeworld, the scion of the Fourth House, Heir to the Blessed Books of Katara, and Holder of the Sacred Scepter of Betazed, experienced true fear for the first time in his adult life. Not the shiver of apprehension or the cold lump of dread he’d often felt before an unpleasant or mildly dangerous task. The sight of the massive armada of Dominion and Cardassian warships massed near Betazed filled him with a paralyzing terror that squeezed air from his lungs and slicked his palms with sweat.

  Ironically, the intimidating size of the contingent also provided a glimmer of hope. While the enemy had kept ships in orbit since the invasion and fall of Betazed four months earlier, never had they amassed so many. The gathered forces implied that the rumor he had heard was true: the Federation was mounting an attack to free his homeworld.

  If Starfleet forces succeeded in driving the invaders from Betazed, Sark’s mission was superfluous. If their offensive was unsuccessful, however, the information he carried for the Federation became more important than ever.

  Tearing his gaze from the enemy ships, he looked to the holo of his wife above his ship’s flight control console. Holding their newborn son, Cort, Damira stared back at him with impish laughter in her black eyes, a smile lifting the corners of her lips, happiness radiating like a sun’s corona. His hands hesitated above the controls. One simple command would turn the ship around, away from the Dominion forces, and send him fleeing back to the resistance stronghold in the Loneel Mountains. There he could hold Damira and his son in his arms again—

  Until the Jem’Hadar came for them and all the other members of the resistance.

  That chilling certainty overcame his terror, and with fresh resolve, Sark continued the shuttle on its heading and moved toward a break in the Dominion line.

  Suddenly, proximity alarms screeched throughout his small craft. Sensors showed a Jem’Hadar attack ship bearing down on him. If he’d had a bank of photon torpedoes, he could have tried to blast his pursuer from space, but Sark’s shuttle was no match for a ship designed strictly for warfare. Since he couldn’t out-gun the Jem’Hadar, he would have to outfly them. Steering a bob-and-weave evasive course that placed him always between a Dominion or Cardassian vessel and the determined attacker, Sark zigzagged his way through the enemy line. If the Jem’Hadar pilot fired on the runabout, he risked hitting one of his own battle cruisers.

  With skill honed over years in the service of Betazed’s homeguard, Sark burst through the armada with the Jem’Hadar attack ship still on his tail. He reached for the control to send the shuttle into warp, just as the Jem’Hadar’s phased polaron weapons strafed his ship. His small craft shuddered violently.

  Sark tapped the panel and sent his shuttle into warp drive. Glancing at his sensors, he saw that the Jem’Hadar attack ship had broken off, returning to its position in the Dominion line. With a sigh of relief, Sark assessed his damage. The hull had been blistered by the polaron beam, the vessel’s pitching and yawing indicating severe damage to its stabilizers, and life support was barely functioning.

  Damage to the ship paled into insignificance beside the loss of subspace communications. He had no way to transmit the contents of the datachip he carried. Turning back was no longer an option. He would have to deliver his intel personally to those who could make best use of it.

  With the shuttle trailing a thin thread of plasma, he headed on an unsteady vector toward Starbase 19. The journey of only a few hours at warp speed seemed a lifetime in his badly damaged craft before he finally spotted his goal. Ahead, the graceful form of the starbase beckoned, and beyond, a bright cluster of blue-shifted points of light marked the approach of nearly fifty Federation starships.

  Hope spread through him like a blessing. Help for Betazed was on the way.

  When he glanced at the aft sensor display, however, Sark’s optimism shattered. The Dominion and Cardassian fleet stretched behind him like a black cloud. With horror, he realized the armada had moved away from the Betazed system to engage the Federation forces here, at the starbase.

  He ran a quick systems check. If his shuttle held together and his life support lasted long enough for him to reach Starbase 19, he could deliver the datachip to the station’s commander, who could then forward it to Starfleet Command. With a swift prayer that the Federation ships protecting the starbase would allow him access, Sark stiffened his shoulders and coaxed more speed from his damaged engines. Failure was not an option. If Betazed was to throw off the Dominion’s oppressive rule, Federation leaders had to receive his message.

  Upon reaching the starbase, Sark tapped out a hail using the shuttle’s outboard running lights, hoping his attempt to identify himself would be understood, praying his Betazoid biosignature would register on the base’s sensors and that his ship wouldn’t be fired upon for its unannounced approach.

  Sark’s ship was suddenly seized by a tractor beam and guided into a docking bay. A klaxon was blaring in the bay as he disembarked, and a Sta
rfleet security detail with weapons drawn surrounded him. One of the guards pointed a tricorder at him, no doubt scanning for weapons.

  “Identify yourself,” the team leader, an Andorian lieutenant, demanded.

  Sark fought to control his breathing and spoke rapidly, hands spread. “Sark Enaren, I’m with the Betazed resistance, and I have to speak to your C.O. immediately.”

  “That won’t be possible,” the lieutenant said. “The base is coming under attack. If you follow my men—”

  “You don’t understand,” Sark interrupted, the deck suddenly shuddering beneath him with what had to be the first salvo of enemy fire. “What I have to tell him could make all the difference for Betazed. Please, just let him know I’m here. Tell him I’m with the resistance. Let him decide.”

  The guard with the tricorder held out his findings to the lieutenant. The Andorian took note of them and seemed to waver. Then abruptly he tapped his combadge. “Th’Vraas to ops,” he said.

  “Georgianos here,” a gruff voice bellowed. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, I have the pilot of that shuttle we snagged. He claims to be with the Betazed resistance. He says he needs to speak with you urgently.”

  The deck shuddered again and Sark could hear a cacophony of activity over the lieutenant’s combadge. After a moment it lessened, and the gruff voice returned. “Haul his ass up here, and make it fast. Georgianos out.”

  “Your lucky day,” the lieutenant said to Sark. “Follow me.” The Andorian turned and began marching out of the bay, Sark falling in behind. As they moved into a corridor bustling with rushing Starfleet personnel, waves of frenzied emotions assaulted Sark’s Betazoid sensibilities and he attempted to shield his mind, but the feelings were too raw, too primal to block. Along with the strong determination and heightened excitement, he could almost smell the fear. With the size of the Dominion force bearing down on them, everyone on the station realized that within a matter of hours, they could all be dead.

  An explosion cut through the corridor behind him, tearing into a knot of junior officers. One young man landed a few feet away from Sark, eyes glazed, his left arm missing. Smoke, choking dust, and the coppery stench of blood saturated the air. Sark reeled from the agonies of the wounded and dying that jammed his mind. A dusky blue hand suddenly gripped his arm. “You all right?” Lieutenant th’Vraas asked.

  Steeling himself against the pain of those around him, Sark nodded once and let himself be led into a turbolift. The ride to the base’s operations center was thankfully brief. As he entered, Sark suspected that the station’s nerve center was being successfully targeted by the attacking ships. Damaged wires and conduits dangled overhead, flames licked the weapons console, and smoke dimmed the room, but the officers of Starbase 19 remained calm and focused, carrying out their duties as if the all-out attack were no more than a drill.

  In the center of the room, a short, stocky man with blond hair, intense gray eyes, and the framed pips of an admiral on his collar snapped orders with precision.

  “All phasers, fire,” he directed the tactical officer, and on a large viewscreen, a Jem’Hadar battleship blossomed brilliantly as twin beams converged on its port engine nacelle. The admiral grunted in satisfaction before turning. “Commander Stein, get a team on those sensor arrays,” he called out as his eyes settled on Sark. “I’m Admiral Georgianos. You have thirty seconds to tell me who the hell you are and what brought you here.”

  Quickly, Sark told him. And before his thirty seconds were up, Georgianos seemed to understand that the Betazoids’ struggle to end the Dominion occupation of their planet had become desperate.

  Before the admiral could respond, there was an announcement of incoming fire from tactical. An explosion ripped through ops and knocked Sark to the floor, causing his vision to fail momentarily. He struggled to his feet and saw Admiral Georgianos slumped against a railing, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. Another officer sprawled dead across the weapons console. Georgianos pulled himself to his feet and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “Shields off-line,” a young lieutenant reported in a shaking voice. “All communications are down, too, sir.”

  Her announcement stunned Sark. “Admiral, my message needs to get to Starfleet—”

  “Jem’Hadar, Admiral!” a security officer yelled. “They’re beaming in through weak spots in our scramble field.”

  Defeat flickered over Georgianos’s square face, then disappeared in an instant. “Get those shields back up. We’ll hold them off as long as we can. The Twelfth Fleet is almost in range.” Georgianos turned to the Andorian security officer. “Th’Vraas, get this man to an escape pod.” To Sark he said, “I can’t spare anyone to go with you, so you’re on your own. If the Jem’Hadar attack ships don’t spot you, there’s a good chance a Starfleet ship will pick you up. Good luck.”

  Georgianos was already bellowing new orders over the thunder of the Dominion barrage as Sark raced after th’Vraas again, this time down a narrow passage leading away from ops. The entire station shuddered spasmodically, and Sark wondered if he’d live long enough to reach the pod. Tamping down fear for his own survival, he silently repeated his mantra.

  Failure is not an option.

  Rage empowered his tired legs, but he wouldn’t let his anger at the Jem’Hadar distract him from his purpose.

  “We’re here, sir.” Th’Vraas tapped a control panel in the passage wall and popped open a hatch. He pointed inside to a contact near the pod’s entrance. “As soon as you’ve secured the hatch, hit this and you’re launched.”

  “Thank you.” Sark avoided the gaze of the lieutenant and climbed inside, fearing for the safety of the Andorian and the others on the station. Sark had seen the size of the Dominion fleet. Starbase 19, he feared, didn’t stand a chance.

  Pushing the thought from his mind, he concentrated on his mission, secured the hatch, and tapped the launch control.

  Nothing happened.

  A nearby explosion must have jammed the mechanism. Sark tapped the contact repeatedly.

  Still nothing.

  The station rocked again. Sark searched wildly for a manual control, found a lever, and yanked on it, hard.

  The force of the pod’s ejection from the starbase slammed him back into the opposite wall of the compartment, temporarily dazing him. His senses returned, and he scrambled to his feet.

  Wasting no time, he inserted the datachip with its encrypted message into the subspace transmitter and began sending. Someone on a Starfleet vessel had to receive it. If Starfleet’s offensive didn’t succeed, the contents of the datachip might be Betazed’s only hope of throwing off the Dominion’s yoke.

  From the corner of his eye, through the starboard viewport, he caught the unmistakable outline of a Jem’Hadar attack ship.

  He had time for only one thought.

  Damira—

  In an instant, the escape pod exploded in a burst of light, and Sark Enaren with it.

  Chapter One

  COMMANDER DEANNA TROI STARED out the wide expanse of windows in her quarters aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. Sadness darkened her deep brown eyes, and worry etched the smooth perfection of her attractive face. Her long dark hair, usually sleek and shining, looked as if it had recently been attacked by a Myrmidon wind devil. She gazed at a cluster of stars that she knew included that of Betazed, her homeworld, shining through the spires of Starbase 133 as if mocking her with their peaceful glow. For once, the sight of home failed to brighten her spirits. If anything, it depressed her more. “A fine state for a ship’s counselor,” she muttered, aware that her mood fluctuated between depression and anger but unable to throw off the negative emotions and provide for herself the cheer and encouragement she supplied so readily for the rest of the crew.

  The Federation had been at war with the shape-shifting Founders of the Dominion, their genetically engineered soldier species, the Jem’Hadar, and their Cardassian allies for more than a year now. Four months ago, they had in
vaded and annexed Betazed, gaining a strategic hold in the very heart of the Federation. Starfleet’s attempts to break that hold had so far failed disastrously. On every front, casualties were growing daily, with no end in sight. Too many ships lost, too many dead, too little hope of victory against an enemy that bred new soldiers faster than Starfleet could recruit and train cadets.

  Deanna rubbed her burning eyes. Every bone in her body ached with fatigue. In less than two hours she had to report for duty, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. How could anyone sleep, knowing what was happening out there? Every time she closed her eyes, she saw—

  The chime on her door sounded.

  She didn’t answer, knowing who it was and hoping he would leave. The last thing she felt right now was sociable.

  The chime sounded again. She flung herself down on the window seat and pulled a pillow over her head.

  Imzadi?

  She sensed Will Riker’s presence, picking up telepathically his concern for her. Will had been her first true love and would always be her best friend, her Imzadi. But she was in no mood to face anyone now. Not even Will.

  “Go away,” she called.

  For an instant there was quiet, and she was breathing a sigh of relief when the doors to her quarters slid open and Will stepped inside. He’d used his security override to enter.

  She bolted upright. “What part of ‘go away’ don’t you understand?” Anger filled her voice, but her more rational side realized it wasn’t Will who angered her.

  It was the damned war.