“The near ships are splitting up,” Bowers said. Vaughn turned from the main viewer—the starfield swooped and dashed, seemingly at random, he saw, as Dax tried to evade their attackers—and looked at the tactical officer. The alert lighting tinted the young man’s dark skin on and off with a rich, rosy glow. “They’re moving to flank us,” the lieutenant said, his tone a blend of resignation and anger, Vaughn thought. “The far ships are closing the gap. They’ll be in weapons range soon.”

The initial attack on Defianthad come as the crew had prepared to leave orbit about Torona IV and begin the return journey to DS9. Vaughn had been speaking via subspace with a representative of the planetary regime, thanking him for the forbearance of his people in allowing the Europani on their soil. The official had responded with accusations of duplicity, the harsh, insectile clattering of his voice breaking into the smooth speech of the universal translator when his words could not adequately be interpreted. Before Vaughn could explain or apologize or offer some sort of recompense, the Jarada vessel assigned to escort Defiantwithin the Torona system had attacked. An instant later, planetary defenses had launched their own massive barrage, and a second Jarada vessel had charged into battle.

Defianthad withstood the initial assaults, the substantially fortified ship among the toughest in Starfleet, but it had also suffered significant damage. Vaughn had taken the only action he could: he had ordered retreat. If Defiantdefended itself by employing any of its weaponry, he knew, the military protocols of the Jarada would send them in pursuit of the convoy. Almost the entire evacuation force consisted of freighters and personnel transports, civilian vessels incapable of outrunning Jarada warships, and with virtually no weapons or defense systems. The convoy carried a hundred thousand Europani, not to mention thousands of crew; the loss of life would be enormous.

“How long?” Vaughn asked Bowers, wanting to know how much time they had before they were besieged by all four Jarada ships.

“Six minutes.”

Vaughn raised his hand to his forehead and wiped it clear of sweat. The air on the bridge, though steadily clearing of smoke, was stifling.

“Do we have warp drive?” Vaughn asked.

“The warp engines are intact,” Nog told him, “but there’s a microfracture in the port nacelle.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough: we wouldn’t be able to maintain warp for more than a few seconds.” Nog peered over his shoulder, and Vaughn noticed a gloss of perspiration coating the lieutenant’s face, his huge, ribbed ears, and his large, bald head.

“How many?” Vaughn asked. He peered over at the main viewer again. He saw only stars, but pictured the two trailing Jarada warships descending toward Defiant,ready to join with their sister ships to put an explosive end to this one-sided battle.

“How many what?” Nog sounded confused, as though Vaughn had asked the question in another language.

“How many seconds would we be able to maintain warp?”

Nog’s eyes narrowed, the fleshy ridge that ran from the top of each ear and across his brow descending in perplexity. Still, he turned to consult his console. “Forty seconds at most,” he said at last. “But maybe no more than twenty-five.”

“Lieutenant,” Vaughn said to Dax. “How much time before we’re at a safe distance to go to warp?”

“Seven minutes on a linear course,” Dax answered immediately. “Almost a minute and a half after the third and fourth Jarada ships get here.”

Vaughn turned in place, surveying the bridge, his mind working over the facts of the situation. They had to remain out of weapons range of the second pair of Jarada vessels; once those two ships entered the battle, it would end quickly. Vaughn could risk going to warp as close as Defiantwas to Torona IV, and the ship would likely be safe. Employing warp drive this deep in a planetary gravity well carried a risk, to be sure, but incidents rarely occurred. The real problem would be that the Jarada would view such an action as depraved disregard for their world and their people, which would drive them to pursue the convoy.

Vaughn’s gaze fell to the center of the bridge, to the captain’s chair. To his surprise, Prynn’s corpse no longer lay beside it, nor was Dr. Bashir still there. With all the commotion, Vaughn had not even heard the sound of the transporter.

Fury swam up from the depths of Vaughn’s submerged emotions. His body involuntarily tensed, his wrath driving him toward physical action. His jaw set, his teeth clenched, his hands drew into fists. The Jarada had attacked Defiantand killed his only child—were still attacking, attempting to kill all the crew—and for what? Because they had been asked to assist in the rescue of a half-million people, and the price they had been paid had not satisfied them? Vaughn’s lips pressed together, his eyes slammed shut, and in his intensity he wanted to return fire, wanted to vent the destructive power of this ship that had been designed to repel a Borg incursion. He visualized the remnants of the Jarada ships scattered harmlessly across the expanse of space.

The orders he knew he would not give floated through his mind: Lock pulse phaser cannons. Arm quantum torpedoes. Fire at will.Vaughn craved to avenge his daughter, and to guarantee the safety of the crew, but he understood well the repercussions of launching any assault against the Jarada under these circumstances. He thought briefly of the only other military vessel besides Defiantto accompany the convoy. The Cardassian cruiser Tragerhad remained well outside the Torona system during the evacuation, so that its presence would not incite the Jarada. But even if Tragerwere not still damaged from its many battles during the Dominion War, it would not be able to defend dozens of civilian vessels against an attack by a squadron of Jarada warships—an attack that would surely come should Defiantopen fire.

Vaughn opened his eyes, again settling his emotions through a conscious effort. He slowed his breathing and tried to let go the tension in his body. His fingers unfurled, and he realized that his right hand hurt badly, the enveloping throb of his heartbeat a clockwork agony pressing in on his wounds.

Vaughn dismissed the pain as best he could, then turned toward Bowers. “Status of the cloaking device?” he asked, still searching for the tactics that would see the crew safely back to DS9.

“Operational,” Bowers said.

“I thought we were not supposed—” started Ensign ch’Thane, but then he abruptly stopped speaking. Vaughn looked toward the sciences console, over on the port side of the bridge. Even though ch’Thane had already returned his attention to his readouts, Vaughn still perceived embarrassment in the science officer’s tense back and hunched shoulders, the slightly curled posture of his antennae. Amid the turmoil, Vaughn unexpectedly felt one side of his mouth curl upward in a half-smile. He did not find the questioning of his prospective orders amusing, but the ensign’s discomfiture was curious. From what Charivretha had related to him, young Shar stood well accustomed to challenging authority.

“What about the shields?” Vaughn asked Bowers. The air on the bridge, he noticed, was almost entirely clear of smoke now, though the ashen taste of the fire’s residue still remained.

“Aft shields are gone,” Bowers said. “Remaining shields down to thirty-seven percent port, fifty-one percent fore and starboard.” He pressed a couple of touchpads and consulted a readout before continuing. “Ablative armor buckled on the port impulse casing. We’ve got a small hull rupture.”

“We’re leaking deuterium there,” Nog added. “That’s the source of the power drain.”

“Does the leak affect all the impulse engines?” Vaughn asked.