Vaughn again reviewed both the raw numbers of the sensor data and the analyses the crew had so far done. To this point, they had learned very little. He could only hope that going down to the planet would provide them with more information.

A few minutes later, a tiny chime signaled the completion of the download. Vaughn switched off the computer interface, then reached over and picked up the padd. He sequenced through a quick diagnostic to verify the success of the data transfer. He then opened one of the Vahni files to ensure that the translation algorithms functioned properly. As the colorful and complex shapes of the written Vahni language marched across the display, the plain letters of Federation Standard crawling along beneath them, Vaughn vividly recalled the scene of the crowd singing at the memorial service, their “voices” a prismatic flow of forms and contours.

Vaughn switched the padd off and stood up. He reached over past the computer interface, to where he had earlier tossed his old Starfleet field coat. Surface temperatures around the source of the pulse had read mild during the day, but would likely drop during the night. Vaughn put on the coat—which he had managed to hold on to since his days as a cadet—and tucked the padd into an inside pocket. Then he headed for the shuttlebay.

The door to the shuttlebay opened to a jet of fire. Along the starboard side of the battered Sagan,Ensign Permenter guided a laser torch across a section of twisted hull plating; where the ruby beam contacted the metal, sparks flew in a bright fountain. The starboard warp nacelle, which had nearly been torn from the shuttle during its ascent through the Vahni atmosphere, lay on the deck behind Sagan,still in obvious need of repair. Beside Permenter, Ensign Gordimer used a tricorder to monitor the work being done. Both officers wore protective eyewear. Gordimer, Vaughn knew, was a security officer, but on a ship with a crew of only forty during an extended mission, people often had to labor outside their specialty.

As Vaughn started into the shuttlebay, he heard somebody call to him from behind, barely audible above the hissing drone of the metalworking. “Captain.” Vaughn turned in the doorway to see Dr. Bashir rushing to catch up to him.

“Yes, Doctor?” Vaughn said, raising his voice to be heard.

“I need to talk with you, sir,” Bashir said as he reached the doorway. Vaughn looked at the doctor, saw the serious expression on his face, and stepped back out into the corridor. The door glided shut, cutting off the noise of the laser torch.

“What is it, Doctor?” Vaughn asked. “I assume this can’t wait.”

“I’m sorry,” Bashir said. “I’ve been struggling with whether or not to approach you about this, and, well, I’ve decided I really don’t have much choice.”

“Make it quick,” Vaughn said, his voice registering the annoyance he felt at being delayed. “Time is a factor here. I need to get on the shuttle.”

“That’s just it, sir,” Bashir said. “I’m wondering whether you’re the right person to be going on this mission.”

“Excuse me?” Vaughn said, nonplussed that the ship’s chief medical officer seemed to be taking exception to personnel assignments.

“You’re the senior officer on the ship, Captain,” Bashir explained, “and for you to take part in a potentially dangerous away mission—”

“Just a minute,” Vaughn said, interrupting. “Who would you have replace me on the shuttle?”

Bashir had a ready answer. “Lieutenant Bowers, I think, would be a good selection.”

“Lieutenant Bowers,” Vaughn echoed, and he suddenly thought he understood the doctor’s motivation. He took a couple of steps past Bashir, then turned back to face him. “Not Lieutenant Dax?”

“Bowers, I believe, has more experience on away missions,” Bashir said, although he did not sound entirely convinced of his own words.

“I see,” Vaughn said. He considered several ways of dealing with the doctor on this issue, but quickly opted for expediency. “Are you worried about me going down to the planet,” he asked, “or about Lieutenant Dax being left in command of Defiant?”

“I’m concerned about Lieutenant Dax,” Bashir admitted. “I won’t deny that. After what she’s been through, I’d also say that’s a legitimate concern.”

“You’re right, it is,” Vaughn said. “Which is why I took it into account when I made my decision. I believe Lieutenant Dax is up to the task I set her.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Bashir said, “that may not be the case. She may seem to be all right when she’s on duty, but off duty, she’s—”

“Don’t tell me,” Vaughn said.

“But, sir—” Bashir began to protest.

“I don’t want to know,” Vaughn reiterated. He looked down a crosscorridor and away from the doctor for a moment, attempting to rein in his displeasure at having to deal with this now. At the same time, he realized that Bashir’s apprehensions about Dax were not without reason. “I like Lieutenant Dax,” Vaughn said, looking back over at the doctor. “I suppose that we’ve even become friends in a way that Curzon and I never managed to. But I’m also her commanding officer, and in the middle of a mission. And what I see from her professionally right now is that she has worked out the loss of Ensign Roness.”

Bashir nodded. “What I’m suggesting,” he said, “is that perhaps she hasn’t actually worked it out as well you think she has.”

“But that’s my point,” Vaughn said. “In her job as a Starfleet lieutenant, as first officer of this ship, she’s behaved perfectly well. Whatever her private feelings are, she’s not allowed them to interfere with the performance of her duties.” Vaughn paused, then said, “I have confidence in her abilities.”

“As do I,” Bashir returned at once.

“But what is this about,” Vaughn asked, “if not her ability to command under stress?” When Bashir did not respond right away, Vaughn stepped back over to him. “Is it maybe about the difficultyof command, about the substantial burden of its responsibilities, especially under stress, and you wanting to shield her from that?”

“I suppose it might be,” Bashir said, looking down briefly.

“Don’t be so troubled by that, Julian,” Vaughn said. “It’s not a wrong or bad point of view. I understand it, and even appreciate it. But I can’t permit it to influence my command decisions.”

“Of course, sir,” Bashir said in a tone that seemed to indicate his understanding.

Vaughn moved away from Bashir and said, “Carry on, Doctor,” dismissing him.

“Yes, sir,” Bashir said.

Vaughn walked forward and the door to the shuttlebay opened. He expected to be greeted with the screech of the laser torch slicing through metal, but instead, only the voices of Permenter and Gordimer reached him. As Vaughn started through the doorway, Bashir called after him again.

“Good luck, Captain,” he said.

Vaughn glanced back over his shoulder. “And to you, Doctor,” he said. Then he continued into the shuttlebay, and the figure of Bashir disappeared behind the closing door.

The shuttlecraft Chaffeehied to port and down. The great, veiled mass of the planet swung into view in the forward windows, implying the movement that the inertial dampers denied. Vaughn scanned the clouds for breaks and saw none. Already, the shuttle had descended toward the planet twice, only to have to pull back when the transitory routes through the cover had been swept closed.

“The depression is increasing,” Ensign ch’Thane reported. He sat at the front starboard console, working the shuttle’s sensors; Vaughn sat directly behind him. Their scans could not penetrate the clouds and the energy surges contained within, but they could visually detect where the cover had parted in an area; ch’Thane tracked such an area right now. “It seems to be stretching far down.”

“If it opens all the way through, I’m ready for it,” Prynn said at the flight-control console. “I’ve put us into a tight spiral course around the central point of the hollow.” Vaughn watched as her hands moved fluidly across the panel, operating her controls like a conductor leading an orchestra.