Station Log, Commander Benjamin Sisko, Stardate 46384.1:

In hopes of reviving the Bajoran mining industry, left devastated after the Cardassian Occupation, the Federation has arranged, in cooperation with private Bajoran investors, to transport a family of Hortas to Bajor. In theory, the Hortas will use their natural tunneling abilities to find pockets of minerals and ore which the Cardassians either missed or deemed too difficult to extract.

We are currently awaiting the arrival of the Federation cruiser Puyallup, en route from Janus VI. I have dispatched a team of officers to welcome the Hortas to Deep Space Nine....

THE AIRLOCK DOOR rolled out of the way like a gear in some enormous clockwork mechanism. In contrast to the grim gray walls of the docking ring, the circular door was the dull red color of drying human blood. Damn Cardassian architecture, Major Kira Nerys thought as she walked briskly through the airlock toward Docking Port 8; even after so much time on the station, I still haven't grown accustomed to the ugliness of it all. Cardassian aesthetics are on a par with their ethics, she mused; that is, they don't exist.

Kira suspected that Commander Sisko would not approve of such sentiments, at least in public. His Federation was annoyingly reluctant to criticize the cultures of even their most loathsome enemies. Hell, they had even made peace with the Klingons. Sometimes she thought it was a miracle that the entire Federation hadn't been conquered centuries ago. But then, Kira wasn't sure she believed in miracles anymore.

Another airlock door, its gearlike teeth crimson as a Bajoran sea-tiger, opened before her and the Bajoran major found herself in a small waiting area outside the docking port. A triangular display, lit in shades of red and blue, announced the arrivals and departures of various spacecraft. An outdated map of the station, mounted on the wall under a sheet of transparent aluminum, waited to mislead newcomers to DS9. Two of her fellow officers, Lieutenant Jadzia Dax and Dr. Julian Bashir, glanced toward her as she approached them. Although a stark metal bench, of Cardassian design, was bolted to both the floor and the adjoining wall, the pair of officers remained standing. Kira didn't blame them; uncomfortable and uninviting, the bench resembled a torture device better suited to a dungeon than a space station.

Dax gave Kira a friendly smile and nod, while Bashir kept on babbling at the young woman, his hands waving enthusiastically as he spoke. As usual, Kira noted, Bashir was hovering around Dax's lithe, attractive form just like a Ferengi would. Why Dax had never told Bashir just where he could beam himself Kira had never understood.

"As a specialist in multispecies medicine," the doctor was saying, "naturally I find the Hortas fascinating. They were the first silicon-based life-form humanity ever encountered. Not only that, they also secrete a powerfully corrosive acid that allows them to move through solid rock the same way humanoids move through air. They actually digest raw iron and other minerals!"

What was Bashir most enthralled with, Kira wondered: Dax's bright blue eyes and gracefully spotted neck -- or the sound of his own voice? Please, Jadzia, Kira thought silently. Don't encourage him.

"Really, Julian?" Dax said indulgently. "That's very interesting."

Oh, no. Kira sighed and shook her head. There was no shutting him up now. Sure enough, Bashir leaned against the bulkhead wall, in what he doubtless considered a suave and dashing manner, and resumed his lecture. A Starfleet medical pouch, strapped over his shoulder, dangled next to his side. "Then, of course," he said casually, his eyes never once leaving Dax's attentive face, "there's the Horta's very unusual reproductive cycle...."

Oh, give me a break, Kira fumed. Typically, however, Dax stood by calmly, with her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Although Dax had a funloving side that Kira had learned never to underestimate, the Trill science officer often exuded a sense of effortless serenity that was almost spiritual. Not for the first time, Kira was secretly envious. Is Dax what Bajoran women were like, she wondered, before decades of Cardassian oppression transformed us into refugees and revolutionaries? Could I have ever known that kind of peace? Kira fingered the silver earring dangling from her right ear. The Bajorans had been a deeply religious people once. Kira liked to think she still was, and yet her spirit was often troubled.

She paced impatiently back and forth across the waiting area. Her dark red boots rapped against the bare, uncarpeted floor. According to the display, the Puyallup was now a few minutes late. What the hell could be taking them so long? She had more important things to do than watch another of Bashir's futile attempts to flirt with Dax.

"I've heard," Dax said to Bashir, "that the Hortas only breed once every fifty thousand years." Kira groaned quietly and rolled her eyes. Sometimes she suspected that Dax actually enjoyed playing these games with Bashir. Kira wouldn't put it past her; after all, the Trill genuinely enjoyed socializing with Ferengi.

"That's a common misconception," the doctor explained. "It's true that every five hundred centuries the entire species dies out, except for one Horta who cares for the thousands of eggs left behind, from which, eventually, a brand-new race of Hortas is born. But, prior to these epochal near-extinctions, there are interim generations of Hortas who reproduce regularly."

Frankly, Kira didn't care whether each individual Horta emerged independently from some primordial lava flow, just so they performed as advertised, and found new treasures in Bajor's pillaged mines. She almost said as much, but Jadzia, damn her, gave Bashir another too-perfect smile. "How intriguing, Julian. From a medical perspective, are there any advantages to this cycle?"

"That's a very perceptive question, Jadzia!" Bashir gushed. Kira prayed to all the Prophets that the Federation cruiser would arrive soon. She tapped her foot impatiently against the floor, wishing it were Bashir's larynx instead. "Of course, the study of Horta biology is less than a hundred years old, but our best theory is that the cycle is a form of population control. Hortas are basically ageless, indestructible, and have no natural predators. Thus, every fifty millennia, one generation of Hortas disappears to make room for their descendants while the primary Mother Horta, selected through a process we still don't entirely understand, provides a form of cultural continuity." The young doctor leaned toward Dax, caught up by the joys of science, or hormones, or some combination thereof. "Think of it! To be the adopted mother to an entire new generation of beings. Imagine what the sense of responsibility..."

"Well," Kira interrupted him, hoping to forestall another dissertation. "I look forward to meeting the Hortas." And soon, she prayed. Exhausted already by Bashir's unending chatter, she found herself seriously contemplating the Cardassian-built bench, unpadded metal slats and all.

"You might want to brace yourself, Major," Bashir said. Although addressing Kira, he edged even nearer to Dax. His dark eyes glowing, clearly convinced that the lovely Trill was hanging on his every word, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just between the three of us, a Horta is not the most attractive of beings. In fact," he said, winking at Dax and working very hard at being casually, shockingly, endearingly irreverent, "a fully grown Horta resembles nothing as much as an oversized slug made out of molten rock!"

Abruptly, the smile disappeared from Dax's lips. The station's science officer remained poised and at ease, but her voice as she spoke was markedly colder than before. "Some of my closest acquaintances look like slugs, Doctor, as you may recall." She turned her back on Bashir and gracefully walked away, a three-hundred-year-old symbiont sharing a fresh new humanoid body.

The crestfallen look that came over Bashir's face, as he suddenly realized his faux pas, was absolutely priceless, at least as far was Kira was concerned. Gone was the confident lecturer and ladies' man of mere moments ago. "Jadzia," he stammered breathlessly, "I didn't mean... that is, I certainly never intended to... you know I have nothing but the highest respect for you and... well, if I can explain...!"

From the other side of the room, and across as much empty space as possible, Dax glanced back at him over her shoulder. "By the way, Julian, I was excavating planetary cores alongside dozens of Hortas while you were still learning to crawl."

In other words, you cocky young fool, Kira thought, she's been humoring you all along. This was getting more entertaining by the moment; she'd have to remember to tell Odo about it later. For the moment, Dax seemed to have rendered Bashir speechless. It wouldn't last, of course, but Kira intended to enjoy the spectacle while she could.

A short chime from her comm badge broke the momentary silence. Damn, Kira thought, just as Bashir was digging his own grave, with Dax maybe ready to throw in a few handfuls of dirt. The doctor had been saved, quite literally, by the bell. She patted the badge on her left collar. "Kira here."

Commander Sisko's deep voice came over the comm. "We may have a problem, Major. Our sensors detect another ship on an intercept course with the Puyallup. The new ship's not responding to our hails, and it appears to have come from Cardassian space."

Cardassian! Kira snapped into combat mode, all thought of Bashir's infatuations and embarrassments instantly forgotten. Her fists clenched automatically. Glancing at the map on the wall, mentally adjusting for its various inaccuracies, she swiftly deduced the location of the nearest runabout. "On my way," she told Sisko. "I'm taking Dax and Bashir on the new runabout, what's it called, the Amazon."

"Understood," Sisko replied. "Be careful."

Kira jerked her head toward the exit and took off at a steady run. She squeezed impatiently past the slowly rolling door as soon as a thin crescent of empty space opened up. Wordlessly, the two Starfleet officers followed quickly behind her. Bashir clutched his medical pouch as he ran after Dax and Kira. The Amazon waited in a service bay in the habitat ring, on the other side of the closest crossover bridge. Take the turbolift, Kira thought; that would be faster than on foot. In her mind, she was already at the helm of the runabout, racing away from the station, ready to engage the enemy once more.

She had no problems with slugs -- Horta, Trill, or Terran. Cardassians, on the other hand, were the closest thing to sentient slime she knew.

Phasers fired in her imagination, blasting the slime out of existence. She was ready. She was willing.

If only she could get there in time.

Titan's large, lumpish body made a grinding sound as she tunneled toward the bridge of the Puyallup. The latter half of the small cruiser had been packed with lightweight synthetic concrete, the better to simulate the Horta's usually solid environment, but Ttan sensed empty air only inches away. She burned through a narrow partition of concrete and slid down the corridor toward the bridge. Behind her, traces of vapor rose from the freshly created tunnel. As usual, the Nothingness her Federation allies called "an atmosphere" tickled the nerves of her outer carapace and made her feel uncomfortably exposed. Prime Mother, she entreated silently, let the worldstuff of Bajor be firm and hard.

The doorway opened before her and she entered the bridge. A metallic semicircle large enough to accommodate a three-person crew, the chamber reeked to Ttan of tritanium and duranium. Good, solid construction, if a bit too airily spacious for her tastes. Captain Dawson rose from the command seat and greeted Ttan as the Horta rustled forward, her lower fringes brushing the cool, metallic floor. Dawson was a tall, stocky Terran whose jawline was decorated with a reddish fringe of its own. Ttan believed it was a male, but wasn't quite sure. Humanoids were such peculiar entities: all carbon softness and pointy appendages. If it weren't for their calcium framework, and a smattering of iron and other minerals, they'd bear no resemblance to life as she knew it.

"Prospector Ttan," it (he?) greeted her enthusiastically. "Thank you for joining us. We should be arriving at Deep Space Nine shortly."

"Fine Faring to you, Captain." The Federation translator affixed to Ttan's husk gave her a melodious voice with a slight East Indian accent. "And Smooth Voyaging to you as well, Navigator Shirar."

Ttan sensed the presence of the Vulcan navigator before Shirar stepped away from her console and into view. The currents of copper flowing through the navigator were unmistakable.

"Greetings, Prospector," Shirar said. Dark strands of protein fibers, neatly aligned in descending parallel rows, framed the Vulcan's pale features. The points of her auditory organs -- "ears," Ttan recalled -- were sharp as stalagmites. Previous conversations had made it clear to Ttan that Shirar was female. "I trust your offspring are well."

"Yes, very." Ttan thought proudly of the twenty eggs tucked safely away in a small vault she had carved herself out of the concrete Starfleet had provided. "And many thanks once more for the extra shielding you devised for my pilgrim infants."

Shirar nodded her chin slightly. "Given the importance and relative fragility of your eggs, it was only logical to preserve them in a stasis field independent of regular ship systems."

"Not, I hasten to add," Captain Dawson said, "that we anticipate any danger to your children. Still, it always pays to be careful, especially where little ones are concerned. I have three of my own, you know."

Three eggs? Ttan briefly reconsidered Dawson's gender. Then the captain called her attention to the large viewscreen at the opposite end of the bridge. The visual display, which occupied nearly the entire forward wall, revealed a vast and terrifying blackness in which distant stars seemed to race past them like sparks thrown off by struck flints.

The Emptiness Beyond the Emptiness. Ttan had experienced space before, but still that vast and endless void, so different from the subterranean home of her people, both thrilled and intimidated her. It was so open. How could any Horta survive without the reassuring, all-surrounding press of rock about her, and where, she wondered, had she found the courage to cross this immense absence in order to carve new tunnels on a distant world? Ttan felt a surge of pride and anticipation. What an opportunity to burn her mark into the Stone of Memory. And maybe, just maybe, centuries hence, she or one of her children might become the Prime Mother of the next Renewal? Ttan would never be so immodest as to admit such an ambition to any other living being, but if she truly strived and succeeded at the great task before her... well, she could always dream, couldn't she?

"Approaching DS9," an eager young voice announced. A Benzite, Ttan realized, recognizing the distinct odor of chlorine from the artificial breathing apparatus affixed under the ensign's chin. Although he was basically humanoid in shape, and clad in a standard blue Starfleet uniform, the Benzite's face and hands were protected by a pale blue chitinous covering with glistening silver undertones. His ears, located higher on his skull than either Dawson's or Shirar's, were also deeply recessed and less ornate than other humanoids'. Ttan was proud that she could identify them at all. With his smooth, hairless shell, the Benzite somehow seemed more convincingly alive than the other humanoids on the Puyallup, although of course Ttan was far too tactful to say so.

"Go to impulse, Ensign," Dawson instructed.

"Yes, sir!" the Benzite responded, expelling a gust of carbon trichloride. Seconds later, the ever-present dilithium aftertaste Ttan had learned to associate with warp travel dissipated from the bridge. The streaking stars before her slowed in their fiery trajectories past the ship. They were almost there, she thought in wonder. Bajor: her new home and her children's future birthplace.

The fibrous mineral filaments around her base rustled with excitement as she edged nearer the viewscreen. Captain Dawson stepped beside her. He stroked the fringe under his own chin.

"Let me show you one of the more interesting local sights," he said cheerfully. "Ensign, lateral view, medium magnification."

"Yes, sir," the young Benzite responded from his post. Instantly, the image on the viewer shifted, revealing what appeared to be a moon or planetoid much closer to the ship than the faraway stars. The moon was large and irregularly shaped, marked by a chaotic pattern of gray-brown peaks and shadowy craters, divided by intersecting veins of some rough, reddish material. Unlike most other moons, this object could not be described as a globe; unknown forces had deformed its mass, flattening its eastern hemisphere and causing the other half to stretch and protrude along random stress lines, like a human skull that has been smashed against a hard surface, with its shell distorted but barely holding together, and bits of soft tissue jutting out through the cracks. The moon's coarse and mottled exterior suggested eons of violent volcanic activity, resulting in a cracked, scarred, and pitted terrain that had obviously never known the patient polishing of wind or water. In many ways, Ttan noted, the huge floating rock bore a distinct resemblance to a Horta. She wondered if that was why Dawson had invited her to the bridge.

If the captain had observed the similarity, he did not comment on it. "What you're looking at," he said, "is the most distant of Bajor's moons. They call it The Prodigal, because it has an unusually wide and elliptical orbit which brings it within sight of Bajor only once every five years. More importantly, from our point of view, its orbit should bring it near Deep Space Nine in a couple of days. If you're still on the station then, the view should be spectacular. Something about the moon's composition causes it to glow whenever it comes into close proximity with what we now know to be the entrance to the wormhole. Tourists and sightseers from all over the Federation are flocking to DS9 to witness firsthand 'The Illumination of The Prodigal.' "

"Previously," Shirar noted, "the station was not located so close to the moon's path, nor were the Cardassians inclined to accommodate outside observers during the Occupation. A better opportunity to view the spectacle has not been available for generations."

A tempting prospect, Ttan thought, but she suspected that she would prefer to travel on to Bajor itself as soon as possible. Indeed, her stop at the station seemed more of a Federation formality than anything else. As DS9 was beyond transporter range of the planet's surface, a Bajoran shuttle had been hired to convey her eggs and herself on the final leg of their long journey. Soon, she recalled eagerly, my children and I will burrow into the comforting denseness of a brand-new world. She wondered what Bajor would taste like.

Suddenly, the Benzite ensign sat up straight in his seat. A puff of chlorine escaped his breathing tube. "Captain! Unidentified vessel dead ahead and approaching fast." His hands moved briskly over the face of his console. Ttan heard his chitinous fingers click lightly against the controls. "They're powering up their phaser banks."

"Shields up!" Dawson ordered. "Red Alert!" He hurriedly regained his seat at the center of the bridge. Shirar resumed her post as well, to the left of the Benzite's station. "Brace yourself, Ttan," the captain said.

Alarms blared liked screaming babies. Ttan fought her instinctual response to tunnel to safety; she would only destroy the delicate circuitry below the bridge. Instead, she wedged herself into the space beneath an unmanned computer station and the floor. Despite her best intentions, a trickle of acid dripped from her hide, scarring the surface of the floor. My eggs, she thought desperately. My children!

Dawson fired off commands to his crew. "Navigator, take over piloting. Ensign, hostile onscreen."

The Benzite brought their attacker onto the monitor. The onrushing ship had a hammerhead prow that promised no peaceful intentions. The craft's muted, reddish brown exterior made it difficult to spot against the darkness of space -- until a flash of phaser fire lit up the screen.

The first blast struck like an earthquake. The Puyallup shook around her; she could feel the vibrations as, even shielded, the ship's hull shuddered under the blast's impact.

"Shields down forty-three percent, Captain." Shirar announced from her post. "Forty-three point seven seven seven nine, to be precise."

"Round numbers will suffice," Dawson said dryly, his voice admirably cool. Beneath the crimson facial filaments, however, his hide had gone pale. Ttan sensed the iron coursing through his veins. "Weapons systems?" he asked.

"Inoperative," Shirar replied. "Executing evasive maneuvers." Unlike Dawson, Ttan noted, the Vulcan's internal fluids were not moving any faster than before the attack.

"Dammit," the captain swore, as the Puyallup took a sharp turn away from their attacker. "We're hopelessly outgunned." His fist pounded the armrest of his chair. "This was supposed to be a passenger run, nothing more!"

Another bolt struck the Federation cruiser, rocking the floor from side to side. The illumination in the bridge flickered. A shower of green sparks exploded from the console in front of the young Benzite. He fell from his seat and lay twitching only a few yards away from Ttan. The thin blue shell covering his flesh was splintered in several places. A thick orange liquid leaked through the crevices. Mercury mixed with platinum, Ttan realized. She regretted that she had never learned the ensign's name.

"Shields down one hundred percent," Shirar warned. Her eyes did not leave her console display. "Warp engines off-line."

"Open hailing frequencies," Dawson ordered, staring in horror at the fallen Benzite. "Find out what they want."

"No response, Captain," the Vulcan said.

The main viewer remained locked on the hammerhead ship. Its prow grew larger and nearer by the second, until it seemed to fill the screen. "Send an SOS to Deep Space Nine," Dawson said. "Tell them we need assistance... now!"

Crammed into her hiding place, Ttan felt an unusual sensation suffuse her entire being, as though she were instantly dissolving into vapor or less. White static, loud and crackling, seemed to come between her and the rest of the bridge. Still, just before the Puyallup faded completely away, she heard Shirar say, "They're activating their transporter...."

My children, my children, Ttan's soul cried out as she was snatched by the Void.

"Unidentified vessel, my foot," Kira snarled. She knew a Cardassian sneak attack when she saw one. She glanced down at her monitors; they were only seconds away from the battle. A small, tight smile lifted the corners of her lips. She imagined strangling the Cardassian attackers with their own ropy neck tendons. It wasn't enough that they had repeatedly robbed and pillaged this system during their long occupation... no, they had to keep coming back for the scraps as well!

Not this time, she vowed, as they came within sight of the conflict. In the distance, she saw the scarred and blackened hull of the small Federation cruiser, drifting in space. The command saucer was still intact, she noted with relief, but both warp nacelles bore the marks of direct phaser strikes; the cruiser wasn't going anywhere on its power. Beyond the Puyallup, her attacker, of recognizably Cardassian design, hovered a little short of striking distance. Not a full-size Galorclass warship, Kira noted with relief, and only slightly larger than the runabout itself.

She increased the magnification on the viewer. The Cardassian ship was curiously unadorned, bearing no military insignia or markings. A rogue pirate, she speculated, or some sort of covert mission? Knowing the Cardassians, she suspected the latter.

"I'm still detecting life signs on the Puyallup, "Dax informed her. Despite the runabout's wild flight, every strand of Jadzia's long brown hair remained tucked neatly in place. How does she manage that, Kira wondered, despite herself. "Humanoid, that is. I'd have to recalibrate for Hortas." Suddenly, Dax's violet eyes grew wide. "Major, the attackers beamed something away from the Puyallup."

Thieves! Kira thought, shifting course slightly to bring the runabout above and away from the besieged cruiser. The last thing she wanted was to put the Puyallup in a cross fire. The bumpy flight smoothed out quickly as she slowed to combat speed. "Lieutenant Dax, activate shields and weapons systems. Prepare to fire on command."

Even as she spoke, a ray of crimson energy leaped from the prow of the Cardassian ship to strike the battered transport. For a second, Kira's heart stopped as she feared she was too late, that the Federation ship would fly apart, killing everyone aboard, an instant before she could try to defend them. Those bastards, she cursed the Cardassians; clearly, they intended to leave no witnesses behind. If they've destroyed the Hortas, she thought angrily, I'll see them reduced to interstellar ash.

Plasma flames, green and incandescent, rippled across the surface of the Puyallup, and the entire ship turned cartwheels in space, but the cruiser held together, if only for a few moments more. Kira breathed a sigh of relief. The Prophets had given her another chance.

To hell with warning shots. "Microtorpedo. Now!" she ordered. Dax's fingers flew across her control pad. Kira watched with grim satisfaction as the torpedo darted straight for the enemy's bridge. A photon blast exploded against the Cardassian's shields, rocking the raider's ship. "The other torpedo. Now." That was the end of her torpedoes, but Kira wasn't going to let up now. The Puyallup probably wouldn't survive another blast, so she didn't want to give the Cardassians a moment's rest. Besides, she still had her phasers.

The second torpedo detonated against the underside of the Cardassian vessel. Their shields held once more, but the force of the explosion caused the enemy ship to lurch and dip momentarily, like a fixed buoy riding out a sudden wave. And was that the Cardassians' emergency lighting blinking off, then on? Kira couldn't tell for sure, but she hoped as much. Seconds later, the ship lifted away from the Puyallup. Was it going to take the battle to the Amazon? Kira held her breath. "Enemy's shields at eight-five percent," Dax said calmly. "Energizing our phaser banks."

Then, to Kira's surprise and disappointment, the Cardassian raider rotated horizontally until the rear of the ship faced the runabout. Warp engines flashed like prismatic lightning before her eyes and the Cardassians took off in retreat. "Heading?" she asked Dax quickly.

"The Cardassian border. Away from DS9."

Everything in Kira's blood urged her to pursue the Cardassian ship, to hunt them down and make them pay for this unforgivable attack, to recover what they had stolen from the Federation and Bajor. She contemplated the wounded cruiser, its once gleaming hull now burned and twisted.