Fire
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Copyright: Paramount
How in the name of the Blessed Exchequer, Quark wondered, has it come to this?
He was in a small room that was part of an unused Dominion communications station, with the walls and forty-three Starfleet officers all that stood between him and a horde of Jem'Hadar. In the bed next to him was his nephew Nog, unconscious, still in his Starfleet uniform, with the bottom half of his left leg missing. There was a flat, empty space underneath the blanket.
Nog's eyes were closed and his hands clasped on his chest. He looked so confoundedly small on that bed, no more than a child, for all his bravado about being a man and a soldier. A child caught in a game which was turning brutally real.
I'll be seeing you … sang Vic Fontaine, from the sound recordings in the background. Julian's idea, and a typical one too, to bring that into the front lines of a battle. It hurt to hear that tranquil singing voice now; the haven of music, laughter and light that was the holosuite felt a million lightyears away.
Quark listened with half an ear as he pulled the blanket up to Nog's chin. He or Rom used to do that every night when the boy was younger. Before he went to that damned Human school of Keiko O'Brien's, before he spent all his time hanging out with Jake Sisko and worshiping the Captain … before he sold his soul to Starfleet and joined the war.
Wasn't it only yesterday?
He could hear them outside. Phaser fire, screams of pain. People were being killed outside those walls. It was like one of those dreams that you wake up from with a gasp and a sigh of relief, except that Quark wasn't waking up.
Neither was Nog.
Didn't I tell you, you little fool? Didn't I tell you? Why did you have to do this, give up your cultural identity and everything our species stands for? What happened to you – to the boy who used to dress in purple, green, red or yellow, and who negotiated his first trade when he was fourteen? Look at you now in that damned black uniform, holding a rifle like it was made out of pure latinum! I never thought I'd see the day any relative of mine would volunteer, actually volunteer, for murder!
Why couldn't Nog have chosen his own uncle as a role model instead of Sisko? He could see it with a clarity that made his eyes stung: a smiling, debonair young man in a tie-dyed suit, pouring drinks and charming customers, safe and happy behind the gleaming counters of the bar. But no, it had to be Sisko. It had to be Starfleet. And this was the result!
There was a rustling noise. Quark whirled around.
He never knew how it happened. A bulky figure with an unfamiliar fame walked into the room; before even consciously noticing that it was a Jem'Hadar soldier, Quark had already grabbed Nog's rifle and fired. The intruder crumpled to the floor.
Quark looked down at the weapon he held. It was set to kill.
He peered cautiously at the body on the floor. It was a Jem-Hadar, and judging by the smoking hole in his chest, he was obviously dead.
Quark stared at his small hands in horror, as if they belonged to someone else. he dropped the rifle on the floor with a resounding clatter, backing away. He had shot someone. He was no better than the rest.
He hated violence. Absolutely hated it. It was the one thing Ferengi didn't do. There was a Rule of Acquisition: You can't make a deal if you're dead.
War turned kindly, civilized beings into bloodthirsty monsters; it made them do things that would normally make their stomachs turn. It left scars that never healed, including scars on their souls. They could replace Nog's leg (if this accursed siege ended soon enough to get him to a hospital) but they could do nothing about the boy's lost innocence.