Author: Flora
Disclaimer: The characters herein do not belong to the author. No money is being made from this story.
Rating: PG
Recipient: not jenny
Words: 3166 words
Spoilers: For Farscape seasons 1 and 2, DS9 Season 1.
Moya is frightened.
Pilot can hear the soft hiss of air rushing out the vents, fading. Silence, thick and complete, settles over the corridors, and the only sounds come from the beeping of instruments in the den. This chamber is sealed. No air remains outside, to carry the dull thud of intruders' boots against the decks.
Images flash in his mind, one corridor after another, short, stocky figures carrying weapons of a design he's never seen. They know nothing of the layout of a Leviathan, but they will find their way to his den soon enough.
He should have guessed they would have oxygen masks. Venting the air has only slowed them down temporarily.
Moya's fear vibrates at the edges of his mind. She is trying to remain calm. She trusts him, and not for the first time, he fears that trust may be misplaced.
They are alone now.
Unsurprisingly, their current predicament began with a wormhole.
Not just any wormhole, but a wormhole that had led them into what Commander Crichton called "the most wacked-out unrealized reality ever". For some reason the Commander found their location, and the beings on the station near them, highly amusing.
"Starfleet?" The station had hailed them as they approached, and Crichton had answered. "The Starfleet? As in the Federation? United Federation of Planets?"
"You are in Federation space, yes." The docking officer sounded impatient. "Your ship is not registered with any government we recognize. Who are you, and what is your business here?"
"We--" Crichton's glance at Officer Sun was half amused, half incredulous. "Ahh, we're just passin' through. Picking up supplies. Don't want any trouble."
Moya had apparently been the first living ship these people had encountered, and so the beings in control of the station had wanted to come aboard and inspect her before allowing any of the crew to enter the station. He'd been about to order the DRDs to prepare the hangar for visitors--when the visitors simply appeared without warning in his den.
"S'okay, guys, it's called a transporter beam." Crichton was the only one unfazed as the columns of gold light coalesced into three beings, standing where there'd been only empty space a microt before. D'Argo and Officer Sun lowered their weapons slowly, as two of the new arrivals did the same. The third did not carry a weapon.
D'Argo was not reassured. "Who are you, and how did you get on board this ship?"
"Constable Odo, Deep Space Nine Security." The gravelly voice betrayed only a hint of curiosity. He might have been Sebacean, or human, if one did not look too closely at his face. Light brown hair was combed back from features that looked oddly blank, smooth and unfinished, but his eyes were sharp. "And you are?"
Crichton stepped forward with a wide, almost manic grin, ignoring the odd looks he was getting from his crewmates. "Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise."
Odo gave him a dubious look, before saying flatly, "Captain Kirk has been dead for almost a century, sir."
This is all Quark's fault.
It's always Quark's fault. From his vantage point on the floor, Odo can see through the intruders' helmets. Ferengi. He can't recognize any of them through the reflections on their faceplates, but he knows he's seen them before.
They'd arrived only two days ago. Four of them, in a ship that matched all profiles for a smuggler. Or a pirate. Light and fast, and by her appearance she'd once had a phaser cannon mounted on the bow. Rumors had already come to the station of pirates striking cargo ships in this sector. But his teams had gone over the ship extensively and found no reason to hold her crew.
They were making Quark decidedly nervous, he'd noticed immediately on entering the bar that afternoon. Recognizing them immediately, he'd taken the shape of a chair and watched as one of them caught Quark's attention, walking up to the bar while his companions waited at a table. Odo couldn't catch his words, but the tone was unmistakably hostile, before the four of them walked out.
"A drink, gentles?" Quark's attention turned quickly to the crew of Moya, who had taken a table near the bar. His usual obsequious manner was no cause for suspicion, but he seemed unusually interested in them.
Not that that in itself was strange. Four of the five were of races unknown to Federation records, though the female looked human enough. They had all been beamed directly to a medical unit from the ship, where Dr. Bashir had confirmed that neither the human nor any of the unknown aliens were carrying any diseases that would affect the station population.
The aliens had been somewhat disconcerted by the transporter beam, and rather put out with the whole procedure, but the human was, in Bashir's words, "like a kid in a candy store". Whatever that meant.
Commander Crichton took a glass from Quark's tray, with a grin and a jovial, "Live long and prosper, pal!" The dark-haired female next to him chose another, sniffed it and put it back.
"I intend to do both," Quark replied smoothly, resting the tray on the table and leaning closer. "And perhaps I can help you, as well. If you are interested in a ... business proposal?"
If the empty chair next to him had had ears, they would have swiveled in his direction. Crichton leaned back, raising one eyebrow. "What kind of proposal?"
"Your ship." Quark lowered his voice. "A rare and beautiful creature, but a man of the galaxy like yourself must be looking for faster, more durable transport. I have a certain ... scientific interest ... in your vessel, and I'd be willing to take her off your hands. You'd be paid quite well, I assure you."
"Moya isn't for sale." Crichton sat up quickly, wagging an admonishing finger to cut off Quark's next words. "No way. No deal." He didn't noticed Quark's worried glance at the exit, where the other Ferengi had disappeared a few moments before.
The DRDs' lasers can't penetrate their suits. The little drones are taking up defensive positions in the corridor on Tier Seven, but the intruders don't seem to mind the beams bouncing off their legs.
They are burning through the walls, now. Moya's pain is mixed with anger, and he picks up her thought, orders the DRDs to charge. Sensors pick up muttered curses on the intruders' comms as they weave between their legs, running into their ankles, attempting to trip them. It's a delaying tactic at best, to buy him and Moya enough time to come up with another plan.
He's already tried contacting the crew on the station, but somehow his comms are jammed. Stretching out with all their combined senses, the only signals he hears are the intruders' comms and the sensors of the DRDs.
Then he sees it--a lone DRD fleeing while the rest mill about the intruders' feet. This one is not linked with the rest, and for a microt he thinks it's 1812, but it is the same yellow color as its fellows.
The Constable, he remembers, had stayed on board after the rest of the security team left.
"You do not have transporter beams in your part of space?" Odo had observed, noting Pilot's surprised reaction as his entire crew disappeared in a wash of golden light, Crichton's cry of "beam me up, Scotty!" still echoing in the chamber as they vanished. "Your home is very far from here?"
By "home" Odo meant "place of origin". The two were not the same thing, he knew now. He hadn't thought of that planet in cycles, and Moya caught his flash of remorse with a gentle thought. Home is here, he thought silently, and heard her loving affirmation, but he said only, "Yes, Constable."
"You have traveled far from this sector." It wasn't a question, and there was a certain intensity in his eyes suggesting this was very important to him. His face, though, remained largely unchanged--though Pilot wasn't sure if it was because he was hiding something, or simply because his race did not express emotion in the ways of most species he'd known.
"We have seen many worlds and many creatures in our travels," he answered. It was not necessary, he decided, to mention Crichton's theory about unrealized realities, or that they could be from another universe entirely. "But we have never encountered any humans besides Commander Crichton, before we arrived here."
"You did not know, when you entered the wormhole, that it would lead you here?"
"No." He shook his head, wishing D'Argo or Crichton had stayed on board to answer the Constable's questions. He knew little about wormholes, and less about the beings on this station or their motivations in studying this one. "The Commander is a scientist, and he likes to examine unusual phenomena we encounter in deep space."
With any luck, Odo would not sense he was being evasive. He was no expert on wormhole theory, but he had seen Crichton hunted by enough beings because of his knowledge, and he did not wish to give this one a reason to suspect the human.
You are doing fine, young one. Moya's reassurance steadied him; it long ago ceased to sting when she called him "young one". Now her quiet affection warmed him, as he recognized her gentle teasing.
"In your travels, have you ever encountered a being who could ... change his shape?" Odo's blunt features remained blank, but Pilot sensed he had a reason for asking.
"There are several species with such abilities in the Uncharted Territories," he answered at last, thinking back to the little Vorc. "Our experiences with such creatures were quite brief, fortunately. We have not seen any of them recently."
"I see." Odo's response was somewhat stiff, and Pilot wondered if he had somehow given offense. After a long hesitation, he asked, "Have you ever met one who could do ... this?"
Pilot tilted his head curiously, only to jerk back in surprise as the other ... melted. There was no other word for it, and Moya's surprise echoed his own as the figure in front of him rapidly dissolved into a red, viscous fluid, collapsing to the deck and running in a thick stream down the walkway toward the den's entrance. "Constable?"
With a rippling, sucking sound, the red mass on the floor abruptly coalesced into its previous appearance, and Odo sighed as if tired. "I am quite all right."
It was several microts before Pilot remembered his earlier question. "No, Constable, I have never seen anything like that before." In a Sebacean or a human, the sudden slump of Odo's shoulders would indicated disappointment or distress. "Are you ... looking for someone?"
"I thought ..." Odo shook his head abruptly. "No one. Anyone, actually. No one in particular."
"What planet are your people from?" he asked, curious now.
The oddly flat features settled back into a look of resignation, and he wasn't sure if he imagined a tinge of bitterness in Odo's voice. "I was hoping you could tell me."
He touched a button on his comm, and was suddenly gone.
He has never seen another of his own people? In response to Pilot's thought, Moya's sorrow washed over him. He nodded. They both knew what it was to be exiles. He had not spoken to another of his own race since they fled the Peacekeepers. She had not seen another Leviathan since her son's death.
The stars still stopped his breath sometimes in wonder, nebulae of dust and color and light, splashed across black velvet. But it was a cold beauty, in the long dark in between, and Velorek had promised freedom from the Elders' laws only to deliver him to slavery under the Peacekeepers.
Still, he could not bring himself to wish he had chosen otherwise. For all he had endured, and all the pain he caused her, he could not regret knowing Moya. Even if he could never see another of his race again.
But he still wondered, sometimes, if she wished otherwise.
The little robots that service this vessel are small and easily overlooked, but they are not built for speed. Odo's wheels buzz along the deckplates as he moves toward Pilot's den, swiveling one eyestalk behind him to watch for pursuit. So far there has been none.
Perhaps, he thinks with a touch of genuine amazement, Quark had done him a favor. If a small one.
"Who are they?"
Quark had given him a very nasty look, swiping at the bar with a soiled rag. "Who?"
Odo jerked his head toward the door where the four Ferengi had disappeared. "Estranged family? Former business partners? Someone you cheated once, and now they want their money back? What is it? What do they want here?"
"I don't know." At Odo's incredulous look, he threw down his rag in disgust. "Here's an idea for you. How about you go ask them, and leave respectable, law-abiding citizens like myself to do our jobs?"
"I am attempting to be discreet." He gripped Quark's arm when he would have moved off to greet another groups of patrons. "What did they say to you?"
With a nervous glance over his shoulder, Quark whispered, "I don't know, I told you. But they were awfully interested in that new ship. You know. The one with the strange aliens."
"Is that why you were asking them about it earlier?" They were still at the table, except for the human, who was chatting animatedly with a Klingon woman. In her own language.
"All right." Quark slammed a fist down on the bar, angry now. "What was it this time? The chair? The plant?"
"The chair, actually." In other circumstances, he might find Quark's frustration amusing. But now he was looking for a lead on the recent pirate attacks, and he didn't have time for games. "So do they really want to buy it? Or are they just going to steal it?"
Quark shrugged. "I didn't ask." At Odo's disgusted expression, he added slyly, "But I also didn't tell them this station's security chief can turn into a chair."
The door whooshes open and the lone DRD slips through, a microt before Pilot seals it again, racing down the corridor toward the entrance to his den. With the seal in place, he opens the air vents in the one corridor outside, waiting for the air pressure to equalize before unsealing his den and allowing the DRD to enter.
"Don't bother sealing them again." He blinks as Odo is suddenly standing before him. "It won't take them long to burn through."
"Who are they? And what do they want with Moya?" She has done nothing to harm anyone since arriving here, nothing to provoke such an attack, and he can feel the burning pain where the intruders' laser torches have cut through sealed doors.
"They want money," Odo says, with absolute conviction. "Apparently they think this ship may be valuable. They plan to steal her, sell her most likely."
"Moya is a living, intelligent being and will not be sold to anyone." Her indignation floods him, and he tries to soothe her, sensing another door opening. "They are coming closer. Can you ... beam anyone on board from your station?"
Odo shakes his head. "They're jamming communications." He is carrying no weapons, and Moya has none. "How far down is it, if they fall off this walkway?"
Moya is thinking, and her sensors are focusing on the caverns below his den now, tiny life signs that normally go unnoticed. A simple plan, really, if Odo can fly. He barely has time to explain the plan before the door to the den opens.
"Put your hands in the air and step away from the console!" By the time the door finishes opening, Odo has vanished. The four suited figures point weapons at Pilot.
He feels Moya's flash of fear as they move forward. "I ... am afraid I cannot comply." Wait until they are closer, he tells her, until they cannot run out the door. "This ship and I are linked. I cannot leave this place."
They look at each other, and the first one snarls, "You fly this ship?"
"Yes." The rifles focus on his face now. Moya's fear is greater than his own; he is strangely calm.
"We're leaving this station. I'll give you the coordinates, and you'll fly where we tell you."
"Understood." Moya doesn't wait for his signal. An electric charge runs through the lower levels under the den, and he feels tiny stirrings before the intruders can hear them.
Shrill squeakings erupt from below them, and a swarm of trill-bats floods the air, flitting about over the walkway in confusion, angry and frightened at being shocked awake. He hears weapons firing, sees bright flashes as the intruders whirl to face a new threat, but the bats merely flit harmlessly, squealing and bouncing off their helmets before zooming about the den.
I'm all right, Moya, he assures her, and she's clearly terrified one of the shots will hit him, but they aren't aimed in his direction anymore.
Odo appears out of nowhere on the walkway, landing on his feet with a thud, and pushes two off before they even realize he's there. A third swings a rifle around to strike him in the shoulder, but there's only a tiny bat fluttering up to join the rest near the ceiling. The fourth runs away from the chaos, toward Pilot, and one claw sends him spinning off into the darkness. The last one follows him over, clinging to Pilot's arm frantically before he shakes him off.
One tiny bat dives toward him, landing on the console with a tired flop. He prods it with a gentle claw, and it's a few moments before Odo is standing there, leaning against the console. "I am simply tired," he says, before Pilot can ask if he is hurt. He ducks his head to avoid a quartet of bats zooming downward. "An unconventional tactic, but it worked. I will borrow one of your transport pods, and bring back a security team to make certain there are no more problems."
"Moya and I are very grateful for your assistance," he says, while silently reassuring Moya that he is fine.
He wonders what kind of trouble Crichton and the others are getting into on the station. They've been down there several arns now, and with their luck ...
I don't like wormholes, Moya is saying, and he silently agrees. As Odo disappears down the corridor, he watches the excited bats still flitting about overhead, and wonders how long it will take them to calm down. He hopes the Constable will find what he is looking for.