The Battle of Betazed - Charlotte Douglas [29]
“You won’t have a job or a life if I don’t keep this station safe.” With the greatest effort, Lemec reined in his temper another notch. “In the past few days we’ve found ruptured EPS conduits, sabotaged replicator systems, and turbolifts that stop only between decks. Defective airlocks are a constant problem. I suspect the slave laborers did much of their sabotage during the building of the station, but only now is the full scope of the damage they inflicted becoming known. The new laborers are equally duplicitous. Their telepathic abilities inform them of what’s happening in your laboratories, Moset, and they’re rebelling against it.”
“That’s why I called you here today,” Luaran told them. “We must rectify these problems.”
“I need more Cardassian troops,” Lemec answered. “Thanks to the good doctor’s experiments, we can’t even keep Jem’Hadar soldiers aboard the station. Those we breed here have to be ferried to the surface before they reach maturity. We should request reinforcements for the station from Cardassia Prime.”
The Vorta folded her arms over her narrow chest and shook her head. “We have the full allocation. The others are needed elsewhere.”
Lemec started to press the issue, but held his tongue at the determination in her expression. Moset, however, seemed not to know when to quit.
“Give me the rebellious Betazoids instead of executing them,” he pleaded. “It’s just senseless killing.”
Lemec’s derisive laugh escaped before he could squelch it. “I wouldn’t think the man who experimented on living Bajorans and killed thousands in his so-called hospital would be so sensitive.”
Moset frowned. “You’re a fool, Lemec. My concern is for my work—not the welfare of my subjects.” The doctor’s lips quivered in outrage. “Minds far superior to yours respect my genius. The Legate’s Crest of Valor for my work on the Fostossa virus is proof of that.”
“You know where you can put your Legate’s Crest,” Lemec said with a snarl.
“Gentlemen.” Luaran held up her hands, her violet eyes glowering. “I expect you to do your jobs, which”—she smiled with irritating sweetness—”you cannot do if you are quarreling with one another.”
Lemec nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “Luaran,” he said, forcing his voice to sound calm and reasonable, “I cannot adequately govern both the planet and the station without more Cardassian soldiers. And commandeering additional Betazoids from the planet will only compound the station’s—and the planet’s—security problems.”
“I implore you,” Moset’s voice swelled with passion. “I cannot continue my research until I have Betazoids with the appropriate genetic makeup. And,” he added as if in afterthought, “the Dominion must have a steady supply of Jem’Hadar and ketracel-white to keep up the war effort. I need slave laborers to help with production.”
Lemec bit his tongue. Moset didn’t give a vole’s ass about the Dominion war effort. All the damned doctor cared about was his cursed science. But the crafty Moset had taken the tack that Luaran would favor.
She nodded in calm agreement with Moset. “I have been given specific instructions by the Founders to do whatever is necessary to facilitate your project, Doctor. You have my personal assurance that more Betazoids will be rounded up.”
Moset preened at his victory, and lorded over Lemec with a triumphant grin.
Luaran turned to Lemec with an apologetic smile. “As for you, Gul … Please don’t shoot them.”
Breathing deeply, Dal Cobrin fought against claustrophobia and tried to estimate how long he’d been in the capsule that enclosed him. The bright lights burned without ceasing in the Cardassian doctor’s laboratory on the space station, so Dal had no method of calibrating time. It seemed like months since the Jem’Hadar had grabbed him and loaded him, along with dozens of other frightened Betazoids, onto the freighter headed for Sentok Nor. Once aboard the station, he’d been transported directly from the docking ring into the tiny container that held him now.
From what he’d managed to ascertain