Commander Benjamin Sisko stared in some bemusement at the report flashing on his desk screen. He wasn't sure that he'd seen that particular set of Cardassian characters before, or the scrolling band of -- was it really decoration? -- that seemed to accompany it, but the message from his own software was perfectly clear, and one he couldn't remember seeing since he had taken command of Deep Space Nine. His schedule, for the next four hours, until the end of his working day, was completely clear. He considered it for a moment, thinking of baseball, of an afternoon game played in the holosuite, and pushed himself to his feet. He went to the office door and looked out and down, already framing his request to Dax -- she would understand his need to take a brief rest, to spend some unscheduled time with Jake, and maybe keep him away from that blasted Nog -- and stopped abruptly, staring down into Ops. The space was all but deserted, only a single Bajoran technician busy at the engineering station. Sisko's face drew into a sudden frown. And not that busy, either: if he wasn't very much mistaken, there was a game, one of Quark's sleight-of-hand games, playing on the technician's screen. Neither Dax nor O'Brien was anywhere in sight.

Sisko's frown deepened, and he came down the short flight of steps into Ops. The Bajoran technician heard his footsteps and turned hastily, one hand fumbling with the controls to abort his game. Sisko drew breath to point out the Bajoran's error -- one did not play video games on duty, not on Sisko's watch -- when the turbolift rose into Ops, and the science officer emerged. Sisko looked at her, at the sudden, spontaneous smile that formed on Jadzia Dax's face as she recognized what had happened, and was not amused.

"And where the hell is everyone?" he asked.

"Chief O'Brien is on the Promenade working on the modifications to Garak's tailoring equipment, Major Kira is escorting some visiting Bajorans on a tour of the station, and I--" Dax's smile widened even further, became at once good-humored and conspiratorial. "I have been playing truant, Benjamin. I confess. I've been borrowing computer time for a project, and I stopped in to check on its progress." She did not sound in the least repentant.

Sisko sighed, and admitted to himself that he was angry primarily because his crew had beaten him to the punch. Still, this was no way to run a space station -- and if he himself was succumbing to temptation, it was definitely time to shake things up a bit. "I think we need to talk, Dax," he said, and turned back up the stairs to his office. Dax followed him, still smiling slightly.

Sisko seated himself behind his desk, waited until Dax had seated herself opposite him. "We're getting slack," he said, and saw Dax's smile widen.

"I'm not sure that that's the problem, Benjamin," the Trill answered. "Or even a problem. The fact that we've finally got the station running at something close to Starfleet standards seems to me to be something of a cause for celebration."

"And I agree," Sisko said. "In principle, anyway. But I'm not pleased to come out of my office and find Ops deserted, and the one tech still on duty playing video games." Dax was watching him steadily, an all too familiar expression in her dark eyes, and for an instant Sisko thought he could see the ghost of the former host looking out from behind the mask of Jadzia's face. It was at times like this that he understood, not just intellectually, but emotionally too, that Dax was truly three hundred years old, and alien -- and, he admitted silently, a good and honest friend. "And, yes, I suppose I'm annoyed because I would have liked to take the afternoon off myself."

"I can take over for you, Benjamin," Dax said. Her expression didn't change, but Sisko thought he heard a fleeting note of approval in her voice.

Sisko hesitated, tempted -- it had been a long time, too long, since he'd felt that things were enough under control even to contemplate taking an unscheduled holiday -- but shook his head, not bothering to hide his regret. "I know. And I appreciate the offer. But there are still a few things I need to do."

"Such as?"

"The Bajoran delegation," Sisko answered promptly. "And I'd like to see how far ahead O'Brien is with the repair schedule. And--" He smiled suddenly, the expression lighting up his rather somber face. "And I intend to draft a notice to all station personnel, to remind them of the procedures that are to be followed if they have to leave their stations. It really won't do, Dax. We can't afford to get careless."

"I do agree, Benjamin." Dax tilted her head to one side, the mottling on her temple just below the hairline suddenly vivid in the office's lights. "I don't like to suggest it, but I suppose we should consider running some surprise exercises."

"If I had suggested that," Sisko said, "you would have called it malice."

Dax nodded, not quite suppressing her smile. "That's why I suggested it."

Sisko grinned, acknowledging the point. "I admit, I'm not eager to do it -- I've been enjoying the peace and quiet as much as anyone aboard. My God, this will be the first time since Starfleet took over that we've had the leisure even to think of relaxing. But we can't afford to get slack."

"Shall I--"

Sisko shook his head. "No, I'll take care of it, Dax. If I'm going to break up everyone else's rest, I should at least have the grace to do the work myself."

"As you wish, Commander." Dax levered herself easily out of her chair. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Sisko began, but his words were interrupted by the sudden shrilling of an alarm in Ops. "What--?" He froze for a fraction of a second, automatically assessing -- not environmental failure, not hull damage, not a threat to the reactors -- and then thrust himself away from his desk. The technician was already at the communications console, all business now, video game forgotten, his hands delicate on the controls.

"What is it?" Sisko demanded, and came down the short flight of stairs to stare over the technician's shoulder. The Bajoran looked up for a second, acknowledging Sisko's presence, but his attention returned instantly to his controls. "Commander, I'm picking up a subspace distress call, very faint. I'm trying to boost the pickup."

"I'll take it through my console," Dax said, and the technician nodded, willingly relinquishing the controls.

Sisko watched just long enough to be sure that Dax had taken over, and stepped to the intercom. "Go to yellow alert. Major Kira, report to Ops at once. Chief O'Brien, report to Ops at once." He looked back at the multiple screens. "Well, Dax?"

"It's a distress call, all right," Dax answered, her eyes fixed on her screen. "Not automated -- and not Federation, I'm fairly sure. I'm trying to get a clean signal to put it on the main viewscreen."

Sisko nodded, knowing better than to press her further, no matter how much he wanted to, and the turbolift rose into sight, carrying the chief of operations.

"Trouble, sir?" O'Brien asked, and took his place at the engineering console.

"We're receiving a distress call from an unidentified ship," Sisko said. O'Brien nodded, but Sisko was pleased to see that he kept his eyes on the station controls, automatically checking system status. It was a small thing, but one of the reasons he was glad to have O'Brien on board.

"Where is it? Can the runabouts reach it, do you think?" O'Brien asked.

Sisko looked at Dax. "We don't know yet, Chief--"

"I have it, sir," Dax interrupted. "I've routed it through the tactical scanners to boost the signal."

"Put it on the main screen," Sisko ordered. Behind him, he heard the turbolift hiss softly, but did not turn his head as Kira took her place at the operations table. He fixed his eyes on the main screen instead, staring as the image slowly swam into focus. It was streaked with static, but the picture was plain enough: an alien, an amphibian by the look of him -- her? -- with mud-colored skin and half a dozen fleshy barbels at the corners of its wide, lipless mouth, looked back at him from the bridge of an unfamiliar starship. From the arrangement of the consoles, and the unmatched gear of the crew people visible behind the speaker, Sisko guessed that it was not a military ship, but he didn't recognize the makers.

"--ship Gift of Flight," the alien who spoke -- he or she did not belong to any of the species Sisko knew by sight -- was saying. "We are under attack from an unknown vessel, request any assistance possible. I repeat, we are under attack and require assistance."

"Can you open a channel to the ship?" Sisko asked.

O'Brien answered, "Aye, sir. I'm working on it."

Sisko nodded. "Dax, can you identify him?"

"Yes, Commander." Dax touched keys, brought a file onto her working screen. "According to the computer, he's a Xawe -- they're an independent race, with a couple of colonies on the Cardassian border of this sector. Xawen hasn't joined the Federation yet, though there are perennial negotiations."

"I've never heard of them," Kira said.

"The Xawe keep pretty much to themselves," Dax answered. "They don't engage in much commerce, but when they do..." She looked at Sisko, her face very serious.

Sisko nodded. "But when they do, their ships are heavily laden. And rich pickings. I remember them now." In the background, the Xawe captain's voice droned on, repeating his appeal. "See if you can get a fix on the ship, Dax. O'Brien, have you got a channel open yet?"

"No -- yes, sir." O'Brien looked down at his console. "Open now."

Sisko faced the screen image, locking eyes with the Xawe captain. "This is Commander Benjamin Sisko, in command of the Federation space station Deep Space Nine. We are receiving your distress call, how may we be of assistance?"

"A space station--?" The Xawe's barbels writhed, a gesture that Sisko could only read as anger and despair. The Universal Translator added the same tones to the hoarse voice. "We are under attack, Commander, we need military assistance."

"What's your position?" Sisko asked, and the Xawe's barbels twisted again.

"I am not familiar with Federation mapping conventions--"

"I have a fix on them, sir," Dax interrupted. "There's no sign of another ship in the area."

"We have you on our sensors, Captain," Sisko said, in what he hoped would be a reassuring tone, and looked at Dax. "Well, where are they?"

"They're just inside the Federation's borders," the science officer answered. She touched controls, and a two-dimensional map appeared, superimposed on the lower corner of the main screen.

Sisko studied it, said aloud, "Captain, what's your top speed?"

"We can make warp five if we have to," the Xawe answered. The barbels curled inward, and the translator tinged his voice with grim humor. "We are doing warp five now."

Sisko nodded. "Still no sign of the other ship?" he asked.

Dax shook her head. "But if it's cloaked--"

Which would mean the attacker's a Klingon, Sisko thought, or maybe a Romulan. Or someone who trades with them. He shook the thought away as unproductive, fixed his eyes on the screen. "Captain, come to course--" He looked down at his own console, touched keys to slave his screen to the map on the main viewer. "--one-nine-six mark fourteen. That puts you on the most direct route for the station. Proceed at your best speed--"

"Warp five," the Xawe interjected.

"That'll still take him six hours," Kira whispered, as much to herself as to any of the others. Sisko glanced at her, startled, to see her eyes locked on the Xawe's image, her mobile face set in an expression almost of anguish.

"We don't have that much time, Commander," the Xawe said. He looked down at his console, out of sight below the edge of the viewscreen, and his barbels twitched again. "We will proceed as you suggest, course one-nine-six mark fourteen, but we are only lightly armed. If the ship attacks again, we will surely be disabled."

In the background, Sisko could see the crew moving to obey the new orders, could see red lights flicker across one console -- engineering, perhaps? -- before one of the other Xawe did something to the control board and the red faded again. "I understand, Captain," Sisko said. I understand only too well, I've been in your shoes, and I never want to be there again, or to see anyone else faced with those choices -- He clamped down hard on those memories. They weren't important now; what was important was to find out what he could about this invisible attacker, so he could save other ships, if not Gift of Flight. He said, faintly surprised to find his voice so steady, "What information can you give us about your attacker, Captain--?"

"I understand," the Xawe said, and Sisko was suddenly perfectly sure that he did. "I -- my name is Arrishan fin'Yrach, and my ship is called Gift of Flight. Remember us to Xawen if all goes ill."

"I will," Sisko said. But I'll be damned if I'll give up without a fight. Too bad the Defiant is at Utopia Planitia for repairs.

Again, the Xawe seemed to read his thoughts. The barbels curled again, and fin'Yrach said, "I'm afraid I don't have much data on our attacker, Commander. The ship is large, and travels cloaked; our sensors cannot follow it at all. We came under fire as we crossed the border into the Bajor Sector, photon torpedoes and phasers both -- very powerful phasers. We took evasive action, fired three of our own torpedoes, and ran. The ship disappeared again, but it is following. We have seen it uncloak half a dozen times, and we have been fired on repeatedly. We are continuing evasive action."

"Right." Sisko looked at Dax. "Any sign of the attacking ship?"

"No, sir." Dax shook her head for emphasis, still watching her screens. "Not even a sensor shadow."

Sisko looked back at the screen, then down at his own console, the first hint of a plan beginning to take shape in his mind. "Fin'Yrach, what's your cargo?"

There was a little silence, almost a hesitation, before the Xawe answered. "Why do you want to know?"

"Can you tell me, please?" Sisko bit back his impatience, willing the Xawe to answer. After a moment, fin'Yrach's barbels drooped, and the translator relayed a sigh.

"We are carrying the taxes and the ceremonial tithe from Anabasi -- our richest colony world -- to Xawen itself. We carry letters of credit, and three thousand bars of gold-pressed latinum. And handicrafts of the planet."

"Three thousand?" Sisko repeated. He heard O'Brien whistle, looked toward the engineering station to see the younger man staring openmouthed.

"I wonder what they mean by handicrafts," the engineer muttered.

Dax said, "Sir, Xawen is particularly noted for its manufacture of computer equipment, which they treat as an art form--"

"All right," Sisko said again. "Major Kira. I want you to take the Ganges, and rendezvous with Gift of Flight -- a Federation presence may be enough to scare off this mysterious attacker, now that they're in Federation space."

"Yes, sir." Kira nodded sharply, touched her communicator to contact the docking bay.

Sisko touched the intercom controls. "Dr. Bashir."

To his surprise, the young doctor answered at once. "Infirmary. Bashir here."

"Doctor, we have a ship under attack, a Xawen ship, and I'm sending a runabout to intercept and offer assistance. Put together a medical kit that can go into the runabout -- and I need it immediately."

"Yes, sir." Bashir's voice did not change. "Um, sir, these are the amphibious Xawe?"

Sisko suppressed a surge of unreasonable annoyance. I don't mind him being right all the time, what I mind is him rubbing my nose in it. He said, "That's right, Doctor. Immediately, if you please."

"Yes, sir." There was a little pause, but Bashir didn't cut the connection. "Sir, request permission to join the runabout crew."

"Bashir, you're a doctor, not a combat pilot--" Sisko stopped, took a deep breath.

Bashir said, "Yes, sir. But if their ship comes under further attack, there may be wounded, and I'm best qualified to provide frontline treatment. I'm more familiar with my own equipment than anyone else is, too."

And that was true, Sisko admitted. Bashir was young, inexperienced, but as far as medical training went, he was one of the best Sisko had ever worked with. "All right, Doctor," he said. "Bring your equipment to the docking bay -- you're going aboard Ganges."

"Thank you, sir," Bashir answered, and cut the connection.

"Sir, the docking crew reports that Ganges is ready for preflight," Kira reported.

"Very well," Sisko said. He gestured for O'Brien to reopen the channel to the Xawe ship. "Captian fin'Yrach, how many people are in your crew?"

The Xawe's barbels twitched. "We carry a crew of fourteen."

Sisko allowed himself a sigh of relief. It would be a tight squeeze, but the Ganges could carry them. "We're sending an armed runabout to rendezvous with your ship. Keep to course one-nine-six mark fourteen -- your most direct line to us -- as much as you can. We'll be tracking you from the station as well."

The Xawe dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Commander. We will proceed as ordered."

"Sisko out." Sisko motioned for O'Brien to shut down communications, looked away to find Dax watching him with a slight frown. "Well, Lieutenant?"

His tone was forbidding, and intended to be so, but Dax ignored it. "Benjamin, fin'Yrach has already said that Gift of Flight was outgunned by this -- this pirate. Our runabouts aren't well enough armed to make much of a difference."

"I know." Sisko was aware of Kira watching him, waiting for further orders. The Bajoran was already fond of lost causes, too fond in his opinion, and it was to her he spoke. "Major, I don't expect you to fight the attacker -- in fact, I'm ordering you to avoid a firefight if you possibly can. My main concern is Gift of Flight's crew. Your primary mission is to get them to safety. If you can bluff the attacker now that he's in Federation territory, well and good, but my main concern is fin'Yrach and his people."

"Yes, sir," Kira said. She stood braced for an instant, then burst out, "Sir, Bashir's a doctor--"

"Precisely," Sisko said, riding over whatever objection she might have made. "You may need one."

Kira took a deep breath, nodded once. "Yes, sir."

"Then let's get on with it, Major," Sisko said. "And good luck."

Major Kira Nerys made her way through the corridors of the habitat ring to the service bay where the Ganges was docked. The airlock at the station end of the docking tube hissed open for her, and she hurried down the dimly lit corridor, the airlock rolling closed again behind her. The second lock opened, and she stepped into the runabout's crowded cockpit. Three of O'Brien's technicians -- fellow Bajorans, all of them; none of them familiar -- were busy at the various stations, working on the preflight checks. One of them -- the senior, Kira assumed, a tall man with a receding hairline and a concerned frown that looked permanent -- looked up from his work and came to meet her, snagging a dataclip as he came.

"Major Kira. We've finished bringing Ganges on line, and we're about halfway through the preflights." He held out the dataclip, and Kira took it, mutely. "The phasers and shields are all fully operational, but I wanted to remind you that you only have two microtorpedoes aboard. We could load another one, but that would take time--"

"How much time?" Kira asked, scanning the dataclip's miniature screen. As promised, everything seemed to be in order, but it would be nice to have more to fight with than just the runabout's standard equipment. "Another hour, at least," the technician answered.

And that really was too much time. Kira shook her head, forced a fleeting smile. "Thanks anyway, I think I'll pass. When will we be ready to launch?"

"As soon--" The technician interrupted himself as one of the others turned away from the last console, tucking her dataclip back into a belt pouch. "You can begin the pilot's preflight now, Major."

That was the last step before launch. Kira nodded. "Thanks," she said again, and flung herself into the tiny command chair. The boards lit at her touch, and she ran her hands over the controls, initiating the final check sequence. She heard the airlock open and close again behind her, assumed it was the technicians leaving, and did not look up until she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

"Excuse me, Major? Where should I stow my equipment?"

Bashir, Kira thought. Sisko would have to send Bashir. She understood why he was there, knew he was needed, would be better with the wounded than anyone else aboard the station -- but if there aren't any wounded, she thought, if I pull this off without a fight, I am personally going to have words with Sisko when I return. She put that thought aside -- she didn't mean it, anyway -- and said, "Somewhere accessible, Doctor."

"Yes, I know," Bashir said, in the politely reasonable voice she found most annoying. "But where are you planning to put the Xawe when we bring them aboard?"

It was not, Kira admitted silently, an unreasonable question. And I don't have an answer yet. She looked down at her controls, playing for time, and the communicator crackled.

"Major Kira."

It was Sisko's voice, rich and assured, and Kira took a breath to calm herself. "Kira here, sir. Dr. Bashir's aboard, and I'm pursuing the final preflight. We should be ready to launch in ten minutes."

"Good." Sisko paused, and Kira could hear indistinct voices in the background, but couldn't spare a glance at the smaller viewscreen to see what was going on. "Dax has the plans for the Xawe ship -- it's a standard freighter, a Federation hull -- to upload to you, just in case the transporters aren't working and you have to take them off directly. She suggests you leave your ventral airlock clear for emergency use; it should be easier to mate to their airlocks."

"Very good, sir," Kira said. "Standing by to download."

"Downloading," Dax answered, and lights flared on a secondary console.

Kira turned to Bashir, and was surprised to see that the doctor had already finished tucking his equipment into hull-mounted storage compartments. He had left the approaches to the transporter and the ventral airlock completely clear. He was wrestling a final piece of equipment -- some kind of a scanner, Kira thought -- into place beside a pull-down emergency bunk, mating its cords to the runabout's power supply.

"It's a hydrator," he said, sounding almost cheerful. "The Xawe are prone to dehydration. They don't have a very efficient circulatory system, and they require a great deal of moisture from the air as well as from their drinking system. This should help keep them from going into anhydric shock."

"Oh." Kira looked back at her boards, saw that the download was complete, and turned her attention to the preflights still flickering through her systems. They were almost finished, and even as she watched, the last indicator bar went from yellow to green.

"Can I help with anything?" Bashir asked, and took his place in the copilot's chair without waiting for an invitation.

Yes, by keeping quiet, Kira thought, but curbed her own tongue. He was also Starfleet, and that meant, of necessity, he knew how to fly a runabout. The little ships were easier to handle with a two-person crew. "Open a channel to Ops," she said instead, and to her surprise, Bashir obeyed instantly.

"Channel's open, Major."

"Kira here. We're ready to launch."

"This is Sisko." The commander's voice was very calm, a deep, soothing resonance that no longer deceived Kira. "You may launch when ready, Major."

"Keying the elevator," Kira said. The runabout shivered as the docking tube withdrew, and then there was a soft rumble of machinery, more felt than heard, as the elevator began to move, lifting the runabout to the surface of the station. The hold light flashed red on her main screen, and stayed red even after the elevator shuddered to a halt.

"Put the scanners through to the main viewscreen," she said, and Bashir obeyed without comment. The screen lit, displaying the outer skin of the habitat ring as it curved away from the runabout. To the left, the core of the station rose in massive terraces, a warning light blinking from Ops at the very top of the station; to the right, the upper docking pylon loomed at the top of the screen, more lights blinking from its tip.

"Ganges, you are clear to launch," Sisko's voice said, from the speakers. "And good luck, Major."

"Thank you, sir," Kira said, and took a firm grip on the controls. "Launching now."

Ganges was light to her touch, responsive to her controls. Kira eased the runabout free of the pad, then threaded her way past the upper docking pylons. "We've cleared the station," she announced, and was not surprised when Sisko answered.

"You're cleared for impulse power, Major. Our sensors show that the Gift of Flight is maintaining a more or less constant heading, still on course one-nine-six mark fourteen. Backtrack along that line until your sensors pick up the ship."

Kira glanced at Bashir, who shook his head. "I don't show any sign of it."

He seemed to have the sensors aligned correctly. Kira said, "We're not picking them up yet, Commander. You'll have to talk us in, at least until we're in sensor range."

"Acknowledged, Ganges," Sisko said. "Dax will keep you on course."

"Thank you, sir," Kira said. She was oddly glad it was Dax who would be guiding them; she liked the Trill. "Going to impulse now," she said, and triggered the engines. The station seemed to drop abruptly away as the runabout picked up speed, all internal sense of motion banished by the inertial damping system. Kira smiled, watching the stars' apparent motion, and brought the runabout onto its proper course.

"Who do you think is out there, Major?" Bashir said suddenly.

Kira looked at him in surprise. It was hard, she thought, to know how to answer a question like that: it was too tempting to be literal, and tell him, "The Xawe and a pirate," when she needed to stay on at least civil terms with him for the duration of their journey.

"I mean," Bashir elaborated, "who do you think is attacking?"

"I figured," Kira said. She had been wondering that herself, wondering if it was some new Cardassian ploy -- but the Cardassians didn't have the cloaking device. "I don't know. There's not really enough data to make a guess."

"Do you think it could be the Cardassians?" Bashir went on.

"Gift of Flight said the ship was cloaked," Kira said. "Cardassians don't have the cloaking device." Yet, a small voice whispered in her mind. They don't have it yet. And if the Cardassians did have the cloaking device, they would certainly use it, she thought, and probably in just this fashion, trying it out on defenseless merchant ships first, and then proceeding against their enemy's warships and planets.... "I don't know," she said again, hoping to silence the internal voice. "We just can't tell."

"Ganges." That was Dax's voice, and Kira seized gratefully on the interruption.

"Ganges here. What's up, Dax?"

"Another transmission from Gift of Flight," the Trill answered, and her voice was grim. "The attacker has fired on them again. They've taken evasive action, but they're still on the same approximate heading. I suggest you proceed at maximum speed."

"Acknowledged," Kira said. "Bashir, stand by for warp drive."

"Yes, sir," Bashir said. "Major, did we get a look at the attacker?"

Kira darted an annoyed glance at him -- she hated it when he got his questions in first -- and said, "Dax?"

"Nothing immediately identifiable," Dax answered. "I got some readings, but the ship cloaked itself again almost immediately. We'll be running them through the computers to see if we can pick up anything on enhancement. Gift of Flight reports no direct damage, but the captain says their engines are beginning to feel the strain."

"Damn." Kira shook herself. "Thanks, Dax." She looked at Bashir. "Warp four, Doctor."

"Yes, sir," Bashir said, and the stars hazed briefly in the viewscreen. "Warp four."

Kira leaned back in the command chair, watching the numbers shift on her screens. Everything was operating at peak efficiency, all systems green, but she wondered, suddenly, if it would be enough. Whatever was out there -- and it felt Cardassian, somehow, the sort of thing they would do -- it was a potentially dangerous enemy, and the runabouts were never meant to be warships. But you stood up against the Cardassians with less than this, she reminded herself. You can do it again.