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He was tempted to mention this to his second-in-command, Darleen Mastroeni, presently sitting next to him in the cramped bridge of the Liberator. Indeed, the word “bridge” bespoke a grandeur it hadn’t earned. It was more like the cockpit of an old airship. Hudson and Mastroeni sat side by side in chairs they barely fit in, surrounded by controls on either side of them and lining the bulkhead in front of them—excepting the tiny viewscreen, of course. A third person on the bridge would have been a physical impossibility.

However, if Hudson did share his gastrointestinal discomfort at the report with Mastroeni, the shorter woman would probably just make a comment about how his precious stomach, having been raised on safe and easy replicated food, wasn’t used to the home cooking favored by most Maquis—mainly because replicator power was not the near-infinite resource it was on a Starfleet vessel, and needed to be rationed for other uses.

But it wasn’t the badly prepared hamburger he’d had for lunch that was making him ill right now. It was the report from Michael Eddington, newly appointed head of Starfleet security for DS9, and Maquis agent.

Getting Eddington onto the station had been quite a coup for the Maquis. DS9 was, after all, the most important strategic post in the sector thanks to the Bajoran wormhole that led to the Gamma Quadrant. Many ships went through there, and having an agent onstation would be invaluable—even if that agent was someone who pretty much told a lie every time he put on his Starfleet uniform.

But it wasn’t even the use of a Starfleet officer to aid the Maquis cause that irked Hudson. He, too, had turned his back on Starfleet and the Federation—but given how shabbily those two organizations had treated their citizens with this idiotic treaty, he had no compunctions about that. If Michael Eddington had no trouble reconciling his duties on DS9 with his dedication to the Maquis, then Hudson had no trouble using him.

No, the true source of Hudson’s queasy feeling was that he was doing this to Ben Sisko.

Hudson and the DS9 station commandant had been friends since their Academy days. They had gotten into trouble with each other, they had participated in each other’s weddings, they had consoled each other when they lost their respective wives.

Now they were on opposite sides of a war. Ben had brought Hudson his Starfleet uniform, and Hudson had made a show of phasering it into oblivion in front of him. And now Hudson had put a viper in his friend’s midst.

“Cal, we’re picking something up,” Mastroeni said. She looked up and touched a control over her head. “It’s a Starfleet distress call, but with a Maquis call sign.”

“Really?”

Mastroeni snarled. Her face had never formed a smile in the six months that Hudson had known her. “An outdated call sign. It isn’t one of ours—probably some Starfleeter trying to lure us into a trap. Permission to blow it to atoms.”

Hudson sighed. The unfortunate thing was, Mastroeni was dead serious. However, Hudson wasn’t so cavalier. He checked the sensor readings. “Reading a type-3 shuttlecraft—call sign indicates it’s the Manhattan, presently assigned to the U.S.S. Hood.”

“I’m not picking up the Hood on any scans—or any other Starfleet vessel,” Mastroeni said. “So if we destroy them, no one will know.”

“She’s also damaged,” Hudson continued, ignoring her. “Those are phaser hits—starship phaser hits.”

“Now we’re being hailed. I assume I should ignore it and fire phasers?”

Turning angrily at Mastroeni, Hudson said, “I’m not about to fire on a ship in distress, Darleen.”

“You’re not in Starfleet anymore, Cal.”

“You’re right—and I haven’t joined Central Command, either. If we start firing on ships that ask for help, we’re no better than the Cardassians.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about being ‘better’ than the Cardassians!” Mastroeni said, slamming a hand on the arm of her chair. “I just want them and Starfleet gone from my life.”

A beep from the console sounded before Hudson could reply. It was a repeat of the hail