Warchild Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-2038-1

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For all those people whose work

  lets children hold on to their childhood

  Historian's Note

  The events in Warchild take place between the first and second seasons of STAR TREK: Deep Space Nine.

  PROLOGUE

  AHEAD OF THEM, the space station twirled slowly against a backdrop of stars. Aboard the runabout, two men wearing the robes of Bajoran monks sat side by side, silently contemplating the velvet dark.

  At the controls, Ensign Munson fought off a fresh wave of the uneasiness that seemed to creep up his spine every time he thought about his passengers. He had been given orders by Major Kira herself to pick up a Bajoran monk at the port nearest the great Temple, yet when he had reported there, Ensign Munson found a monk and a vedek awaiting passage to the station, both with impeccable travel authorizations.

  They presented their documents without a word, replied to his formal words of welcome with no more than a nod of the head, and they had maintained the same inscrutable silence ever since. The only discernible sound Ensign Munson heard either one of them make for the entire voyage was when the vedek inclined his head slightly in the other's direction and the delicate ornament hanging from his right ear made a muted tinkling sound like wind chimes.

  Munson shuddered in spite of himself. The silence between the two Bajorans was more than just the absence of sound. It seemed to have a mass and presence of its own. A small voice inside Munson's head whispered soothingly: Soon we'll dock, and they'll be gone. Good riddance! They give me the creeps.

  "Ahhhh."

  It was only a soft exhalation of breath, a mere sound of acknowledgment, but it erupted in the midst of the silence with the impact of a photon torpedo. Munson almost jumped out of his skin, and jerked his head around. The Bajorans had their heads together, one holding a pale blue scroll open for the other's perusal. It was impossible to tell which of them had been the one to break the silence.

  Then from the one holding the scroll, a question: "And your cause, my brother?"

  Ensign Munson straightened his shoulders and faced forward once more. The Bajorans' conversation was none of his business. He felt like seven kinds of a fool for having let their former silence unnerve him so badly.

  So they don't talk much; so what? he told himself. Not everyone in the galaxy's a chatterbox, that's all. At least they're talking now.

  And then he heard words that made him wish the Bajorans had kept their shield of silence:

  "I have come because of the children." The monk's voice echoed eerily in the runabout. "The children are dying."

  CHAPTER 1

  "SOMEONE TO SEE YOU, COMMANDER."

  Benjamin Sisko looked up from his desk sharply and tried to put on the face of a man who has just been distracted from important business. His heart wasn't in it. He knew he'd been daydreaming—something he seldom had the leisure or the inclination to do since taking command of Deep Space Nine. Something he had only recently found pleasure in doing, too. A mind that wandered could sometimes wander back into the past.

  "Yes, what is it?" he asked, a trifle sharply.

  Major Kira Nerys met his eyes with her own level gaze. "Are we interrupting something important, sir?" she asked. Her dry, slightly amused tone let Sisko know straight off that she knew he was temporarily unoccupied, but she'd be willing to go along with the act if he felt like pretending he'd been busy.

  "Not at all, Major," Sisko said, dropping all pretense and giving, her one of his rare smiles. "Who wants to see—?"

  The words froze in his throat as the Bajoran monk came gliding into the commander's office.

  Sisko felt his body tense. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how earnestly he told himself to relax, the sight of a Bajoran monk always set his entire being on edge. He remembered—he could not help but remember—his first encounter with one of that brotherhood when he and his son, Jake, were newly come to Deep Space Nine. Then his thoughts had been set solely on how to get out of this unlooked-for command, how to get himself and Jake back to Earth, even if it meant taking a post with less responsibility, or leaving Starfleet altogether.

  That first Bajoran monk had looked him in the eye in much the same way this one was doing now, but to Jake Sisko it had felt as if the man were looking into his soul. That monk spoke words Sisko had not understood—the Prophets? What Prophets?—not then. Sisko brushed the words aside. He had lost track of all the exotic religions he'd encountered since joining Starfleet. He did his best to offer them all a measure of respect, if not belief. He had never expected one of them to reach out and touch him to the heart the way the faith of Bajor had done.

  It had touched him deeply, helped him come to terms with his past, the death of his wife, his role as commander on Deep Space Nine. It was a strong source of power—strange power, unknown power—the mystic faith that permeated every aspect of Bajoran life. And like many things strong and strange and not fully known, it put Sisko on guard.

  "What can we do for you?" he asked the monk, trying to sound cordial if he couldn't bring himself to sound friendly. "No trouble in the temple, I hope? The one aboard, I mean." He realized that to a Bajoran, there could be only one Temple—that vast and eerily beautiful complex of domed buildings and lush gardens that the departing Cardassians had vandalized but could not utterly destroy. When Sisko spoke of the temple, he first thought of the small Bajoran shrine aboard the space station.

  The monk's gaze did not waver. He stood before Commander Sisko with his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his rust-colored robes. A skin-tight cap covered his head, leaving only his weather-beaten face and ears exposed. His beard was short, black sprinkled with gray. Sisko realized that this monk was no ancient sage, but a fairly young man. The few wrinkles he did have were lines of toil, not of age.

  "Commander Sisko," he said. The strength behind the voice convinced Sisko he was right in his assessment of the monk's years. "I am Taren Gis, a monk in service to the Prophets. I have come to you to ask for aid."

  Sisko became aware that
he was clutching the arms of his chair too hard. He made himself relax his grip. "Go on. What sort of aid?"

  "It's the camps," Major Kira blurted. Sisko was startled. It wasn't a rare thing for Kira Nerys to forget herself, to barge in with demands and opinions, asked for or not. But usually those were angry outbursts, brief flashes of a temper sharpened and made bitter by growing up under the brutalities of the Cardassian occupation, honed by her years as a Bajoran freedom fighter.

  "Camps?" Sisko echoed.

  "The refugee camps, Commander." There was no anger in the Bajoran woman's voice; only pain. "We don't have an exact tally of how many of them there are, but I'm surprised Starfleet never mentioned them to you at all. I suppose they didn't think it was important enough to bring to your attention." Now a sliver of the old bitterness slipped back into her words.

  "Starfleet is aware that there are refugee camps on Bajor" Sisko countered. One line buried somewhere in my briefing material, he thought ruefully. If that. "We're working with the provisional government to speed up resettlement procedures. Most of the camps have already been emptied and—"

  "Labor camps," Major Kira snapped. "The Cardassians did their best to empty those before they left. They used their own methods of resettlement. Her tone left no question that the Cardassian idea of resettlement was permanent. "The refugee camps are another story."

  Sisko turned to the monk. "Brother Gis, how many camps are there?"

  The monk made a sign with his hands indicating that he did not know. "Commander, what are numbers? Your people and mine speak of the Cardassian occupation as lasting sixty years. You count these years in days, I count them in lives. You believe it is over, simply because the Cardassians are no longer here, but I see it otherwise. I see it as too many deaths that did not have to be, too much land laid waste, too many lives that have become horribly transformed. I have charge of a single camp; it is all I know. It is located in the Kaladrys Valley. Once this was the choicest, most fertile farmland on all Bajor. The Cardassians knew that as well as my people."

  "The Cardassian installations in the valley set up a system of forced agricultural production," Kira said. "No mercy for the farmer who didn't meet his predetermined quotas. The quotas were unrealistic, but the Cardassians didn't care. They'd take what they could get, and if they happened to find an excuse to kill more of our people in the process—" She shrugged, though it was more like a shudder. "Those who could escape, did. But they're mostly families in the Kaladrys Valley. You can't run so fast with children." She spat out the words: "They were easy to catch."

  "I only ask your help for one camp," the monk continued. "The one where I and two of my brethren serve. It is near the old farming village of Lacroya. We are luckier than most; the destruction of Lacroya was fairly recent and incomplete. We have been able to glean much useful material from the ruins. Many of the people originally with us were farmers, and could coax crops from rock—or so they liked to say. They rallied the children to help them plow a few fields and to plant seedlings. Our relief supplies from the provisional government have been as much as charity could make them, but to give charity to others, you must first have enough to provide for your own family. There are very few Bajorans who can say that these days. So our farmers decided to take back the land and feed themselves."

  "That's commendable," Sisko remarked. "And I assure you, if there is anything we can do to help them regain their independence—"

  A wistful smile touched the monk's face. "They are dead now."

  "Dead?" Sisko's hands clutched the armrests of his chair again. "What happened?"

  The monk held out his hands, palms upward. "We called it camp fever, for want of another name. One of my brethren is a healer of great skill. In the Temple, he studied the ancient records of sickness and health. He thought it was an affliction very like satai, the swelling fever. He applied all the known remedies for satai to the victims." He lowered his hands. "They died anyway."

  "Did you contact the government for aid?"

  Major Kira snorted. "Why bother? The government will give nothing because the government has nothing to give. Besides, they have their own problems, trying to keep all the factions and splinter groups together long enough to make consensus decisions. Between that and a half dozen 'leaders' only on the lookout for the opportunity to promote themselves, there's no hope of real help. In their eyes, their own political survival is more important than the lives of a few refugees."

  "It is sad," the monk said quietly. "The people of the valley have suffered so much, so long, under so many different hands. The Cardassians' brutal rule was only one burden laid across their shoulders. Then the Bajoran resistance sought to strike at the Cardassians by destroying their immediate food supplies. They burned crops, destroyed farming implements, and in the end did no great good to the cause."

  Kira bridled. "The resistance knew what it was doing! We struck at the Cardassians' resources—"

  The monk shrugged. "Cardassian technology was easily able to replenish all foodstuffs the resistance destroyed. Where they did not have replicators, they simply got shipments from more cooperative districts. The only ones who starved were the Bajorans. And as if that were not punishment enough, the Cardassian overlords held the farmers themselves responsible for any damage done by the resistance. There were more executions, more deportations to the labor camps. Many farmers tried to run away, but again their families held them back. The few who stayed were told in no uncertain terms that they were to meet the old quotas. No matter that those quotas were set when there were more hands and more working machinery to help meet them."

  "There's no need to tell the commander all that," Kira said sharply. "Just tell him what you told me."

  Sisko cupped his chin in one hand. He had seen enough of battles and their aftermath to know that there were never any winners in a war—just some victims who lost less than others. He was certain Major Kira knew that too, but to say it aloud would be the same as admitting that the resistance had done almost as much harm to Bajor as the Cardassians. He chose to say nothing and hear out the monk's words.

  "We do not know where else to turn," Brother Gis went on, addressing the commander. "The government indeed has nothing for us—neither technology nor supplies nor human aid."

  "I'm surprised," Sisko said. "You'd think that the provisional government would see the wisdom in investing a major effort in the recovery of agricultural lands and the people to cultivate them. Even politicians need to eat."

  "You are right," Brother Gis responded. "But foresight is a gift which the Prophets, in their wisdom, have not chosen to bestow on many. There is enough land back under cultivation for our leaders to feel that they have seen to Bajor's immediate needs. Besides, they do not see the point in wasting relief efforts on refugee camps that will not be able to repay them with effective manpower for at least ten years."

  "What?" Sisko was taken aback.

  "The fever has already destroyed most of the adults in our care, Commander." The monk bowed his head. "Before the sickness, our camp sheltered families. Now it is almost entirely a refuge for orphans."

  "Children are out in the fields, working like adults," Major Kira said. "They can barely raise enough food to feed themselves, let alone the sick ones."

  "Sickness feasts best at the table of famine," Brother Gis said. "Word has reached us that there are similar outbreaks of this illness in other camps, both in and beyond the valley. The sickness is spreading, feeding on the weak. That is why I am here. This station always brought death to Bajor. Now let it open its other hand and bring the gift of life."

  "What, exactly, do you need?" Sisko asked.

  The monk reached into his sleeve and brought out a carefully folded piece of paper. "In consultation with my brethren, we have made this list." He handed it over. "We have concluded—with regret, but quite realistically—that if we are unable to fulfill these needs, the fatalities will mount at such a rate that—"

  "That we needn't bother
sending any help at all," Major Kira concluded grimly.

  Sisko studied the list, feeling his heart drop a little lower with every item. Some of the things the monk requested were simple enough to provide, but not in such quantities—! He would have to contact Starfleet, and while he waited for the shipments, more people would die. As for the rest of the monk's requests—medical personnel, for example—they were impossible. You couldn't give what you didn't have.

  Sisko sat back and took a deep breath. He had always known that it wasn't easy to hold a position of command in Starfleet, but he used to think it got easier with time. He knew the answer he had to give this monk, as little as he liked it.

  "Brother Gis," he began, "I'm sorry—" He saw Major Kira stiffen where she stood. "We'll do what we can to help you, but it will take time to obtain all the items you've asked for."

  "There is little time," the monk replied.

  "I'll dispatch a call to Starfleet immediately, requesting additional medical supplies from any ships in the vicinity, on either side of the wormhole. In the meantime we will give you all that this station can spare, but—"

  Brother Gis made a small but commanding gesture that momentarily silenced Sisko. "The supplies are not vital. We will gratefully accept whatever you can offer us. As for the rest, we will go on as we have in the past, making do. But what we truly need, most desperately—what we can no longer do without are healers. What good if you give us all this"—he indicated the list in Sisko's hand—"and we lack the help to use it?"

  "I see your point. Sisko pressed his fingers to his lips in thought. "Dr. Julian Bashir is our station's chief medical officer. He's acquired a number of assistants since his arrival. I'll consult with him, see if he can recommend one or two of them to help you."