Chapter Text
"Would you mind handing me that hyperspanner?"
Ren could hear the grin in Rom's voice as he stretched his arm out behind him. She plucked the tool from her kit and placed it in his grasping fingers, her other hand inching the light rail upward another couple centimeters while he worked the servo connections.
The thing was heavier than it looked, and her muscles burned as they crouched in the crawl space between the promenade deck and habitat ring. Barely enough room for two small people, let alone Cardassians. She pictured some unlucky engineer wedged in here during the occupation, their bulky armor scraping the conduits. Then again, maybe claustrophobia was a luxury the Cardassians didn't indulge in.
All this work to replace a simple downlight. What were the architects thinking when they designed these clunky housings?
"You sound excited today. You must have set the date."
The light rail clicked into place with a satisfying whirr, and she smiled despite herself. She'd been working under Rom for several months now, and while she'd had reservations about reporting to a Ferengi at first, Rom had proved her assumptions wrong pretty quickly. He was empathetic, generous, and refreshingly free of the casual misogyny she'd braced herself for.
Rom sighed, the sound carrying all the exasperated dreaminess of a man hopelessly in love. "Leeta and I already talked to Captain Sisko. Having the Emissary of the Prophets conduct the ceremony will be quite an honor!"
He beamed as they packed up their tools, his sharp teeth gleaming in the low light. Then his eyes widened. "But the dress!" He groaned. "I told you how we spent ages looking at Garak's designs and couldn't pick one, right? Well, he said he's going to make her something special. He told us to trust him. But what if it's a complete disaster? He's not Ferengi, and he's certainly not Bajoran. What if there's too much material? Oh, you can't even imagine the shame if she's not naked enough to be modest! But I'm determined to be happy with whatever she wears, no matter what my brother has to say about it!"
She shook her head with a chuckle as she clicked her tool case shut and began the long crawl to the nearest access panel. "Your brother has a lot of opinions, doesn't he?"
"Sheesh," Rom exclaimed as he crawled along behind her. "Does he ever! But I don't care. This is my wedding and he can just... well, he can butt out is what he can do!"
Her laughter echoed through the crawl space. Whatever Ferengi cliche Rom didn't conform to, Quark gleefully embodied. Materialistic, greedy, misogynistic. A pervert, too, if the rumors about the holosuite programs he ran were true. Attack of the Klingon Warrior Princess. Vulcan Love Slave. Priestess of the Prophets.
She wouldn't lie to herself. The idea of a steamy fantasy escapade in the safety of a holosuite had its appeal. But someone in her position rarely saw the kind of latinum that would buy her even an hour of that particular indulgence.
As they emerged from the access panel and into a busy, carpeted corridor of the habitat ring, she dropped her toolkit and bent over to rub her throbbing knees.
“You’d think they could pad those. Or at the very least not use corrugated plating.”
"Yeah, but whoever builds those things would never sacrifice the two centimeters of space you'd need for a decent layer of cushion," Rom joked, pulling a padd from his utility belt. He scrolled through it. "Ok, we have two more service calls on our duty list for today. If we split up, we can get them both done before our shift ends, what do you say? You take the flickering com panel in the dignitary's lounge, and I'll take the replicator malfunction in my brother's bar."
"Alright." She shrugged, rolling her shoulders and adjusting her uniform with a firm tug. The damn thing was always riding up. "Maybe while you're there you can convince him to let me take some swing shifts. I could really use the latinum, and Leeta can keep me safe from your brother's nonsense."
"Still saving up to fix your old shuttle?" Rom asked.
The shuttle. At this point she was shocked it hadn't been hauled off to make room for something useful. Every time Chief O'Brien did a storage bay audit, she braced herself for the notice to vacate Bay 3.
"Yeah. It really doesn't need much to be spaceworthy again. Just a few more induction coils and an antimatter regulator. But until I can scrounge up the parts, I'm marooned here."
"You could be worse off," Rom said kindly. "How long has it been anyway? Almost a year?"
"A little over a year now, yeah."
Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. She steered the conversation away before he could ask more. "And you're right, I could be worse off. I don't mind working for the Bajoran militia doing what comes naturally to me, even if the pay leaves a little to be desired."
"Tell me about it!" Rom's huff was cheerfully exasperated. His spirits were seemingly impossible to dampen. "I have to think about supporting a wife now! Maybe I should ask my brother for some swing shifts myself!"
"Don't you dare." She poked his shoulder with her forefinger. "I thought of it first. Who knows, maybe he could even help me acquire my shuttle parts cheap."
"Oh, that's a can of worms you don't want to open!" Rom ducked his head as he laughed. "But I'll ask anyway, just to see if he needs someone on call to fix his replicators at odd hours. It could mean a slip or two of latinum from time to time, and that could probably help you out."
"Thanks, sir. I appreciate it."
She beamed. She wasn't as happy about the idea as she looked. Being roused at oh-three-hundred to fix a replicator in a loud bar sounded like hell. But latinum was latinum.
"Meanwhile, I'll get that flickering panel in the Dignitary's Lounge repaired and confirm the task complete before I log off tonight."
She smiled and returned Rom's wave as she set off down the corridor toward the turbolift.
As soon as Rom was out of sight, the smile dropped from her face.
She drew in a long breath and closed her eyes as she waited for the turbolift doors to open. Rom hadn't meant to remind her that it'd been a little over a year since the incident. A little over a year since her world was suddenly upended and everything changed. How could he know? She'd deflected with practiced ease, steering the conversation away from anything she wasn't prepared to reveal. Anything she wasn't prepared to relive.
The tension settled into her shoulders like it belonged there. She rolled them out, stretched her neck, tried to shake it loose.
The turbolift doors opened with a whoosh, and she stepped inside, giving her uniform another sharp tug.
The ride to the next level was quick. She emerged into another carpeted corridor, quieter than the one she'd left. This deck was mostly restricted to Starfleet personnel, maintenance crews, and important dignitaries, but she'd expected more activity during a shift change.
Her eyes focused on the carpet as she walked, taking her mind off her troubled thoughts. The shade of blue beneath her feet was different from the wine red and gray common throughout the station. Was it a subtle trick of psychology? Did blue evoke calm before stepping into meetings with interplanetary dignitaries?
Her mind wandered through swirling questions and half-baked assumptions as she stepped into the lounge.
She startled when she looked up and found the room occupied.
"Oh, excuse me sir. I can come back another time." She paused in the threshold. The corner of her toolkit clanked awkwardly against the door as it slid closed behind her, and she instinctively jumped forward.
"It's alright," Captain Sisko said, gesturing for her to enter. "We're just wrapping up in here. Proceed with your repairs."
He turned back to his senior officers and continued his discussion in hushed tones.
She lay on the floor and opened the com unit's lower access panel, running her diagnostic tool over the display connections to find the faulty conduit. She couldn't help but overhear snippets of their conversation. When it became clear what they were talking about, she made a greater effort to tune out the high-pitched whirring of her tool and strain her ears for more.
"Do you really think he would do it?" Doctor Bashir's voice was soft, concerned. Like he hoped it was impossible. "Up until this point there have been virtually no acts of aggression, and he's promised to talk to his Founders."
"Oh, he'd do it," Major Kira snapped. "All that false friendliness doesn't fool me for one second. Behind that saccharine smile is a treacherous little snake, mark my words."
"I'm inclined to agree with Major Kira," Captain Sisko said. "Weyoun will attack this station as soon as he can mobilize a fleet. We'll need to be ready. I expect a plan on my desk by oh-nine hundred hours tomorrow. I want suggestions for everything we discussed, from defensive strategy to sabotage. Mister Worf, work with Major Kira and Chief O'Brien on a kill switch program for Ops. Doctor, prep your infirmary and give me a requisition list. Let's go."
She watched from the corner of her eye as the senior staff filed out behind the Captain, then returned her focus to the com panel.
Seconds later, a throat cleared behind her.
She yelped and sat up, whacking her head on the corner of the open panel. Her hands flew to her face. The decoupler dropped from her grip. A polished boot stopped it from rolling away, and Chief O'Brien crouched down beside her, picking the tool up off the floor.
"Oh, excuse me sir." She kneaded her forehead and scooted into a seated position, rubbing the blooming bruise with a grimace. "I didn't know you were still in here."
"Oh, that's quite alright." The Chief gave her a crooked smile as he handed over her decoupler, his eyes quickly sizing her up. "You ok there? That was quite a crack to the head."
"I'm alright, thanks Chief. Just give me a minute and I'll get this repair completed." She forced a smile as she took the decoupler and moved to slide back under the panel.
"A faulty display conduit, eh? That repair shouldn't take longer than a few minutes at most. What seems to be the delay?"
He masked the question behind friendly joviality, but she could hear the suspicion underneath.
She thought about fibbing, but she had the distinct feeling he already knew what was taking her so long. "Is it true, sir?" She fidgeted with her decoupler as she studied his face. "Is the Dominion going to attack the station?"
She hadn't denied that she'd stalled her repair to eavesdrop, but her question was intentionally oblique, her gaze open and unwavering.
Her father had taught her the subtle art of avoidance and deflection from an early age. Return a question with one of your own, he'd told her, but choose your words wisely to avoid looking suspect. There was a fine line between innocent evasion and manipulation that most smart people could pinpoint, but people in positions of authority like Chief O'Brien liked having all the answers.
O'Brien gestured for her to move over, then scooted under the panel and pulled his spanner from his uniform pocket. She wished the Bajoran uniforms had a chest pocket. It'd be so handy for small diagnostic tools at the ready.
"You're on Rom's detail, aren't you? What's your name again?"
"Ren, sir."
"Here." The Chief's spanner turned red over a series of faulty conduits. "Decouple this one here, then these over here, recouple, then begin a diagnostic. So I take it you're part of the team that's been building the self-replicating mines?"
"That's right."
She knew he was gauging how much he could share. He was keeping things close to the chest, and she could respect that.
They worked quietly for a few seconds, then O'Brien sighed. He didn't turn his head. He just stared into the open panel as he spoke. There was a tired resignation in his voice that made the back of her neck prickle.
"It's just a matter of time before those Dominion bastards descend upon us. You should see how Gul Dukat practically salivates at the idea of regaining control over this station. I wouldn't put it past him to lead the charge if the Dominion sends a fleet here, and while it won't be pretty, it will be quick. This station isn't equipped to defend itself against an assault of any real size, and the Federation has its hands full on other fronts. With the Borg and the Maquis. Not that you heard it from me, but the idea is really just to keep the bastards busy until the minefield is deployed, then surrender a crippled station. We can always rally and return."
"And the kill switch? I heard the Captain ask for a plan to disable Ops."
"The less your team knows about that the better." O'Brien grunted as he pulled himself up off the ground. He watched Ren snap the panel back into place while he pocketed his spanner. "If we're forced to retreat and have to sabotage Ops, it's likely the people still stationed on Deep Space Nine that'll handle repairs, and it'll be easier to keep the Cardies busy and run repairs in endless circles if no one knows where to start."
She understood exactly what Chief O'Brien was saying. This wasn't just a casual conversation between colleagues. They weren't postulating about some vague possibility.
This was a directive.
She tugged on her uniform as she stood, her toolkit in her hand. "I'm a decent engineer. I can make sure no stone is left unturned. That is, if they let me keep my job."
O'Brien grinned, slapping her on the back as they made their way out of the lounge. "You sure you're alright? That knock on the head is blossoming into quite the bruise. Maybe you'd better let Julian take a look at it."
Ren was more inclined to grab some dinner from the Replimat and eat it in her quarters. It'd been a long day with an even longer repair log. She was tired and wanted to get an early start on sleep.
The Chief's comment made her pause. Maybe going into her shift tomorrow with a bruise on her forehead wouldn't be wise. People would ask where she got it and why, and then she'd be stuck answering questions. Better to just let the doctor heal it and be done with it.
Her mind was on the plate of Andorian flatgrass and seafood curry she planned to replicate when she entered the infirmary. She hoped she wouldn't have to wait long, and her stomach agreed with a hearty rumble.
"Can I help you?"
A voice pulled her attention up from the blinking medical display unit she'd been peering at. She'd have to note that dark spot in the digital readout in her logs. Those dynamic lights rarely burned out, so the engineering crew likely had a good store of spares.
"Yes, thank you. It's my head. I bonked it earlier and was hoping to do a little dermal regeneration to fade the bruise."
"Ah yes." Doctor Bashir's grin was a little crooked as he gestured for her to sit on the end of a biobed. "I saw Miles startle you earlier. It was you in the Dignitary's Lounge, wasn't it? I never forget a face."
"It was me." She frowned. Her moment of clumsiness had a growing audience. "I saw you all leaving the room, so I figured I was alone."
"Well, I stepped back in to see why Miles wasn't behind me and was just in time to witness you crack your coconut on that panel." He didn't laugh out loud, but she could hear the teasing mirth in his voice.
"Great." She chuckled as he ran the dermal regenerator over her forehead. "Maybe the holo-recorder in the room caught the event. We could broadcast it all over the station. And why stop there? We might as well send the recording into subspace and tickle the whole quadrant's funny bones. Maybe you should stop healing my forehead. I may need everyone to know that the person in the recording is me."
Doctor Bashir laughed as he finished erasing her bruise. "Too late. It's gone. It'll have to live in my memory now, but never fear, my dear. My memory has been genetically enhanced."
"Wonderful." She shook her head, rolling her eyes. She had no idea the doctor was so personable. She hadn't had much reason to visit the infirmary before now. A simple bump or bruise wouldn't typically have her scrambling for medical attention. She was far too stubborn for that.
Besides, she'd always been taught to ask for as little as possible. No one would have anything to hold over your head if you didn't look vulnerable or ask for favors.
Her father's voice again, ringing in her head like a bad habit.
"Thanks for the reassurance and the repair, Doctor. Am I good to go?"
"Not quite yet." Bashir reached for another device. The little light on the end shone into her right eye brightly, then her left. "I'm just going to check to make sure you don't have a concussion. The probability is next to none, but since you're here we might as well be thorough."
Ren's mind wandered to the conversation she'd overheard in the lounge as Bashir gave her head a quick scan with his tricorder.
"Do you consider yourself to be a good judge of character, Doctor?" She asked before she thought better of it.
"What on earth prompted that question?" Doctor Bashir barked out a short laugh, then his brow furrowed. "Oh. I take it you're referring to the conversation you overheard. You're wondering..."
"Who's right. You or the Major." She sat back and tilted her head as the doctor began to assess more than her possible injury. He was sizing her up, just as Chief O'Brien had done. Only the doctor seemed to make up his mind about her a little quicker than his colleague had.
"You mean about whether or not we'll be attacked?"
"You seemed to doubt it, but everyone else seemed so sure. Major Kira most of all."
The words were flowing from her lips like it was the most natural thing in the world, but this exchange was already making her uncomfortable. This was more than small talk. This was a conversation with powerful implications.
Why did she ask that question in the first place? Was it because he'd made her so comfortable with his easy charisma, joking with her about her bruise? They weren't friends. He didn't have any reason to trust her. The pit growing in her stomach began to crawl up and gnaw at her brain.
She wanted to bolt.
"It's not that I doubt it." He perched on the edge of a nearby console and crossed his arms over his chest. "In fact, I'm as sure as the rest of them that an attack is imminent. Perhaps moreso, given statistical probabilities seem to favor the idea. I suppose I said what I did because I don't want it to happen, and it's not in my nature to want to think the worst of anyone, even our strange Dominion Ambassador."
"Major Kira seemed to hate him."
"Major Kira doesn't hate him, she distrusts him. She distrusts everyone, and she's earned her cynicism. The Bajorans know better than anyone what can happen when Cardassians get tangled up in their affairs."
"Oh." Ren bit her bottom lip, her brow furrowing. "I didn't realize the Dominion Ambassador was a Cardassian."
"He's not." Bashir lifted himself off the console and dropped the medical tricorder into its charging slot. "He's Vorta."
Her curiosity piqued despite herself. "And what are they like? The Vorta. Are they anything like the Cardassians?"
"You've never seen him when he's come to the station? Walking through the Promenade or having a drink in Quark's? He certainly doesn't hide when he's here."
It dawned on her then that he wasn't answering her questions just to be polite. No, with the way his eyes were dancing, she had no doubt he was having fun. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. He must enjoy gossiping. He must relish the chance to share juicy tidbits whenever the opportunity arose. Come to think of it, she'd seen him often enough in the Replimat with Chief O'Brien or the station's tailor, their heads leaned close together over a raktajino or plate of food, deep in conversation.
Nothing she was asking was classified intel. If it was, he'd be more hesitant. The anxiety in her stomach began to evaporate.
"No, I haven't. At least, I don't think I have. I wouldn't know, actually. What's he look like?"
"Oh, you'd know him if you saw him." Doctor Bashir chuckled. "He's always surrounded by a Cardassian or two, and next to them he stands out like a sore thumb. Not because he's more imposing than them. Quite the opposite, really. If I were to describe Weyoun, it would be as foamy flotsam on Gul Dukat's tidal wave. Small, delicate looking, quiet, unassuming."
He paused, and something shifted in his expression.
"But like Kira said, it's almost as if he's been designed to lull you into a false sense of security. Like beneath the ethereal beauty lies the lurking spider."
The words settled over her like cold water.
Ethereal beauty. Masked danger.
Her pulse kicked up for reasons she couldn't name. The description shouldn't have affected her this way. It was just words. Just a warning about a diplomat she'd never met and probably never would. But something about it crawled under her skin and wouldn't let go.
Beautiful things weren't supposed to be dangerous. At least, not in any of the stories she'd grown up with. The beautiful prince saved you. The beautiful princess was saved. Beauty was goodness made visible. But this. This was something else entirely.
This was the serpent in the garden, wearing a pleasing face. The wolf at the door, speaking with a gentle voice. The fae creature in the old tales her father used to read to her, the ones that warned children never to follow the pretty lights into the woods. Never to trust something lovely that smiled with too many teeth.
She realized she'd been holding her breath.
And worse, she realized she wanted to see him. Wanted to know if the reality matched the description. Wanted to test the contradiction for herself, like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
The thought disturbed her almost as much as the description had.
Ren couldn't stop thinking about the picture Doctor Bashir had painted of the Dominion Ambassador.
She sat cross-legged on her bed in her modest, windowless quarters, a tray of Andorian curry in her lap. She chewed the food she'd craved all day, but the delight of it was nearly lost on her. She could barely taste the salty tang of the flatgrass, so consumed was she by imagining this enigmatic creature Julian had described.
Beauty masking danger.
The words kept circling back, like a song she couldn't get out of her head.
Julian. He'd asked her to call him by his given name before she'd left. She'd been flattered, albeit suspicious of his motives. She wanted to blame her father for her difficulty connecting with people and making friends. He hadn't trusted anyone. Paranoid, delusional, controlling. He'd drilled into her time and time again that everyone was a potential enemy, and if they weren't an outright enemy, they wanted to take advantage of your weaknesses. He didn't believe altruism existed. He believed that friendliness was a tool. A lie. That everything given to you came at a cost, even something as simple as someone's time.
She'd been on this station for a little over a year now, and she wondered if he was the reason she sat with her dinner alone in her quarters, afraid to break free from the stranglehold his paranoia had on her. Or if she was the reason.
She sighed as she returned the tray to her matter recycler.
Shackles. Her father's voice was like a set of heavy iron shackles she wanted to be freed from. She was exhausted by the weight of them. She knew that if she'd never been marooned on this station, if her creaky old shuttle had carried her further across the stars, if she hadn't had the good fortune to be given an opportunity here, she'd never have had the chance to do what she was considering right now.
She changed into her sleep clothes and slipped under the soft coverlet, calling for the lights to dim.
She wouldn't become her father.
She'd reach out. Make connections. Try to be something other than the scared, isolated woman who ate alone in her quarters every night. Maybe she'd take Julian up on his offer of friendship. Maybe she'd ask Rom and Leeta to include her in their wedding plans. Maybe she'd stop hiding.
But as the lights faded and sleep pulled at her, it wasn't thoughts of friendship or connection that filled her mind.
It was a face she'd never seen. A smile that hid razor sharp teeth. Beauty wrapped around something dangerous.
Small and delicate and unassuming. Ethereal.
A spider.
She told herself it was just curiosity. Just an engineer's need to understand a puzzle, to test a contradiction.
She almost believed it.