Slowly, air returned to Nog’s lungs, and his head stopped spinning. He struggled up onto one elbow, took a deep breath, and shook his head to clear it. Only when he had opened his eyes did it occur to him that, unlike when he and Ensign Roness had run into each other, nobody had tried to come to his aid this time. The reason became immediately apparent: Nog recognized the black boots of the figure standing in front of him even before he looked up and saw their owner.
Nog gasped. He rolled his eyes up, but did not lift his head, as he took in the boots, the black coverall, and then the hideous face of the Jem’Hadar. Instinctively, Nog listened, hoping to hear the footsteps or the voice of an approaching crewperson. But he heard nothing but the machinery of Defiant,his own shallow breathing, and the breathing of the Jem’Hadar. Nog was alone with him, he realized…alone with it.
“Don’t hurt me,” Nog whispered, and he could hear the tremors in his own voice. Fear gripped him, and all of the rationalizations he had made to himself—and that other people had made to him—about trusting this Jem’Hadar, about allowing this murderous being to remain on the station, fled from him in an instant. All at once, it was of no consequence that Odo had vouched for this thing; Odo was not here, was not on the station or even in the Alpha Quadrant, and this creature had been designed and hatched to be a killing machine. Nothing changed that, not Odo’s intentions, not the Jem’Hadar’s independence from ketracel-white, and not all of the people on DS9 who wanted to believe that peace with the Dominion meant that nonviolent coexistence with the Jem’Hadar was possible. Colonel Kira, Admiral Ross, Captain Picard, Commander Vaughn—they had all been fools, and now Nog would pay the ultimate price, as though he had not paid enough already.
The Jem’Hadar towered over him, like one of the docking pylons rising high above the rings of Deep Space 9. Living on the station for as long as he had, and then attending Starfleet Academy, Nog had grown accustomed to having to look up at almost all of the people he met, but not like this. From his position on the deck, he felt as though he were staring a kilometer up into the sky. The 53rd and 235th Rules of Acquisition occurred to him—“Never trust anybody taller than you,” and “Duck; death is tall”—and he understood them as he never had before. His father had first recited the rules—
Father.Nog pictured him, thinking about how he would react to the news of his son’s death: he would be devastated. Anger joined with Nog’s fear as he imagined the terrible sadness his father would feel. Quickly, vowing to battle both his fear and this monster, Nog moved, reaching his left hand up to his chest and slapping at his combadge to activate it. “Nog to security.” The words had left his mouth before he realized that his combadge was no longer pinned to his uniform. It must have fallen off, either when he had collided with Ensign Roness, or when he had collided with…this.
Nog lifted his head and looked up at the Jem’Hadar. It squinted down at him, clearly sizing up its prey. Nog hurriedly looked around, searching for something, anything, that would help him. The padd,he thought, trying to find it. He could throw it at the Jem’Hadar’s face, maybe buy himself enough time to get back into the turbolift—
Nog whirled his head around as he caught movement in his peripheral vision. The Jem’Hadar had stepped forward and now reached down to grab him. Nog thrust his feet hard against the deck, his legs acting like pistons as he scurried backward away from the monster. With one impact, pain shot through his left knee. He rolled onto his side and tried to push himself to his feet. For a moment, he thought he would make it, and then the Jem’Hadar’s hands closed around his chest and side like vises. Nog’s feet came clear of the deck as he was lifted. His anger and resolve slipped away, leaving him alone once more with his fear. He opened his mouth to scream—Starfleet officer or not, he did not want to die—but only air emerged. His ears went cold.
“We are not at war with each other,” the Jem’Hadar said as he settled Nog back onto his feet.
Nog stopped trying to scream, but he remained agape. The monster’s voice, which he had not heard in quite some time, and never at such close range, came out not as a growl, but full and rich. The sound startled Nog, and he stared up at the Jem’Hadar’s face. For long seconds, the creature’s powerful hands remained locked around his upper torso, and Nog thought that if the Jem’Hadar squeezed, it would crush the life out of him. Nog closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
But the creature released him. His body now unsupported, Nog’s leg started to give way beneath him. He staggered to the left a step, his knee buckling. He reached down and wrapped his hands around it, forcing it straight and keeping himself on his feet.
“Did you hurt your leg?” the Jem’Hadar asked.
Nog stood back up and stared into the face of the enemy. Not much more than a year ago, the lower part of his leg had been destroyed by a blast from a Jem’Hadar weapon. The memory—still clear, still haunting—surrounded Nog like a toxic fog, choking him as it closed in around him. In his mind, he hunted for something to give himself air, to protect him from the suffocating closeness of his memories and his terror. What he found was hatred.
“You blew my leg off,” Nog said, his voice hissing through his clenched teeth.
The creature’s brow knotted. It cocked its head at an angle, obviously not understanding Nog’s words.
“A Jem’Hadar shot my leg off,” Nog said, his voice louder now. Why am I standing here?he asked himself. Why am I talking to this creature?He should leave, he knew, turn and escape as swiftly as he could. But he did not move. Instead, he watched as the Jem’Hadar peered down at his leg. “It’s biosynthetic,” Nog said.
The Jem’Hadar nodded. “You are fortunate to have reclaimed your life,” it told him, its voice lacking any detectable inflection, as though simply reciting a cold fact.
Itis a cold fact,Nog told himself, and then pushed the thought away. “I don’t feel ‘fortunate,’” he spat, and an image rose in his mind, vivid and reaclass="underline" he saw himself holding a phaser trained on this monster before him. In the fantasy, Nog did not hesitate; he depressed the trigger and fired a beam of white-hot energy into the Jem’Hadar’s chest, vaporizing it into nothingness. “Would you feel ‘fortunate’to trade your leg for a hunk of rock in the Chin’toka system.” It was not a question. Nog knew he should leave while he could, but somehow the depth of his loathing kept him there; he wanted—he needed—this creature to express remorse for what the other Jem’Hadar had done to him.
“The Chin’toka system,” it said. “I am aware of it. The Dominion housed a primary communications relay there during the war.” For the first time, Nog thought he detected emotion in the creature’s voice: resentment, maybe even anger.
Good,Nog thought. Let it feel what I feel.
“Seventy-two Jem’Hadar were killed in that action,” the creature continued, and now Nog was certain that he heard anger in its voice.
“You were trying to kill us,” Nog said, struck by the incongruity of offering up a defense for Starfleet’s attempts to save the people of the Alpha Quadrant from the invading hordes of the Dominion.
“It was the Founders’ will,” the Jem’Hadar said.
“That doesn’t make it right,” Nog said, the volume of his voice climbing.
“Of course it does,” the Jem’Hadar avowed. “Everything done in the name of the Founders is right.”
“Shooting my leg off?” Nog’s voice had risen almost to the point of screaming.
“The Jem’Hadar soldiers you fought were trying to kill you, I’m sure,” the creature said. “Their mission was to defend the communications station. They were carrying out their duty. You fought them. Shooting you was the appropriate thing to do.”