Until now, the covert team had not dared go out all at once. The chance of getting caught all together was not worth taking, since it would mean an end to the mission. But now the Dominion had one of their own, and that changed everything. The covert team descended on the town square for Petty Officer Atwood’s scheduled execution. The only person they left behind was Chief Petty Officer Shafir. Commander Lewis had concluded she was too compromised by her emotions to perform at the moment.

While their zeal drove the team to action, the covert operators remained disciplined with due regard for their dangerous reality. Moving solo or in pairs to avoid attention, they all eventually reached the square. Commander Lewis could hear them as they checked in, courtesy of a microscopic earpiece embedded deep in the tympanic cavity, matched with a subcutaneous voice receiver inserted beneath the larynx. They were both completely invisible to bystanders but gave the team a way to communicate with each other.

Dr. Lisa Hall leaned up against a pillar by the main entrance to the square. Nam Jae-Sun, Jace Morgan, Kora Tal and Ryssehl mixed into the crowd gathered by the main stage. Grok was splayed out at a corner cafe, sipping on an ‘85 Ferenginar like he’d come to watch the spectacle, with Brock Jordan and Elyssia Rel sitting nearby. And T’Aer was doing T’Aer things.

The crowd was thick. Mixed among the dense throng, none of the covert operators drew any attention. As Commander Lewis weaved his way towards the front of the crowd, he looked up at the tall buildings around the square. Up there somewhere, completely invisible to even his observant eyes, he knew T’Aer sat sighted in, their guardian on overwatch.

“Dominion convoy, four troop carriers, approaching from the east,” T’Aer reported.

Commander Lewis processed the information without a change in demeanor. After all, a bystander in the square wouldn’t have the voice of a Vulcan sharpshooter in his ear. Glancing to his left, he could see Kora Tal and Jace Morgan near the front of the crowd, and Nam Jae-Sun was a bit further back covering them discreetly. He couldn’t see Ryssehl anymore, but the demo man was probably around the back of the stage in case there was an opportunity to make something go boom. His team looked relaxed, sticking to their training, even under the stress of their situation that one of their team was scheduled to be executed.

“Hall, you have incoming,” T’Aer warned.

Four massive armored vehicles barreled into the square, almost running over a dozen people caught by surprise. Standing off to the side, Dr. Hall was not among them, but she used the chaos of scrambling bodies as an opportunity. With a flick of her wrist, a barrel concealed within the folds of her loose sweater spit out four silent projectiles. Each carried a microscopic transmitter, and all four hit their mark. Anywhere the vehicles went, the team would now know.

The vehicles came to a stop near the stage. Dozens of Jem’Hadar filed out, rifles at the ready, forming a perimeter around the stage. Lewis had hoped it would just be a small firing squad, but this was nearly a full company of lifelong, highly trained killers. Far too many for the team to recklessly blast their way through.

The guards secured the perimeter around the stage, and then a Vorta stepped out and walked up onto the stage. Standing over them, he looked out at the feeble citizens of Nasera, his nose scrunched at the stench of their inferiority. 

Jem’Hadar had been everywhere the last four days, but this was the first time the team had seen a Vorta. It indicated the importance of these executions. They were clearly a key part of the Dominion’s strategy.

“That’s a lot of guards,” Lieutenant Commander Jordan remarked over the earpiece. “What’s the plan?”

“What about if we get Grok a mic and have him do some karaoke?” Ryssehl asked from his concealed location behind the stage.

“I’m game,” replied the Ferengi enthusiastically under his breath between sips of the ‘85 Ferenginar. It was a good year for the wine, even if it had been the same year the FCA liquidated him.

“Get serious folks,” begged Jordan. Their teammate was scheduled to get executed, and yet still they bantered. It was truly unbelievable.

“Oh, I’m being completely serious,” replied Ryssehl deviously, and he mostly meant it. They had once used the lunatic Ferengi’s horrible pitch at a Rigelian bar to distract a Klingon captain’s guards while they abducted him. How was this really all that different? Distract the Jem’Hadar and save their man. No, that wouldn’t work. The numbers and the layout were far different here. But at least it gave the Andorian a chuckle.

“If this were an assassination, it would be trivial,” observed T’Aer from high above, her scope centered on the Vorta. It would be so easy to pull the trigger. “But a rescue, I’m not seeing how this is going to work Jake.”

Commander Lewis disregarded the voices in his ear. There had to be a way. He could feel his concealed sidearm against the small of his back, but he had no idea how to use it. The conditions just weren’t right. All he could hope was an opportunity presented itself. Otherwise, this would be a sorry affair, the team watching powerless as one of their own was executed right in front of them.

The Vorta raised his hands to quiet the massive crowd that had gathered. 

“The Founders are compassionate masters,” he began with a deceptively gentle tone. “All they ask in return for their compassion is your service. Each time I come before you, I remind you that service is life. But the opposite is also true. If you do not serve, then you shall not live.” He said it with the dark reverence and conviction of a true believer.

The words should have been shocking, but what shocked Commander Lewis was the complete lack of shock from the crowd. They stood there reactionless, desensitized to the words, resigned to their reality. They’d become numb to this. They would offer the covert ops team no help.

The doors of the lead troop carrier opened again, and two Jem’Hadar dragged out a battered and brutalized figure, that of Petty Officer Jason Atwood. Carrying him by the shoulders, the Jem’Hadar dragged him onto the stage. By the way his legs dangled, it appeared they’d both been broken, or he’d been otherwise injured to the point he had no ambulatory function. That presented a serious problem for any rescue attempt. They couldn’t just carry him across the city with the Jem’Hadar giving chase, and it would take time for Lieutenant Kora, their medic, to get him straightened out enough to flee under his own power.

Petty Officer Atwood was conscious though, as opposed to last time Shafir had seen him. That just meant he could now feel pain and fear. The Vorta had probably arranged a good deal of both to coax information out of him. For a moment, Commander Lewis wondered if they’d managed to break his proud Texan resolve, and if so, how much might he have told them? Was the safehouse still safe? Was the mission compromised?

The Jem’Hadar dumped Jason Atwood on the stage at the feet of the Vorta. While he couldn’t stand, the man lifted his chest off the ground, stuck his chin up in the air, and directed a defiant glare towards the Vorta. Lewis breathed a sigh of relief. That was not the stare of a man that had given up. He’d fight to escape if they could create the right conditions.

“Any ideas folks?” Lewis asked.

For once, the line was silent. No one had any ideas, not even Grok or Ryssehl. This whole setup stank. It was too exposed, with too many troops present, no good escape routes, and no support. In fact, even if they pulled something off, they’d probably just get turned in by some terrified colonist who’d heard the Vorta’s speech and didn’t want to be next.

“This man is a Starflet officer!” shouted the Vorta, pointing down at the broken man.

A mix of shock and nervousness spread through the crowd as they glanced around at each other. This was a dangerous moment to slip your cover, standing in front of dozens of Jem’Hadar and hundreds of scared colonists who now knew your operation existed, but none of the covert operators gave even the slightest hint of a reaction.

“He wouldn’t admit to it, no matter how forcefully we asked, but we found his tricorder and his phaser,” the Vorta continued as he pulled a tricorder and a phaser out to show the audience.

There was one piece of good news at least, thought Commander Lewis. A man that hadn’t even given his captors the satisfaction of a confession for a fact they could prove would not have given up the safehouse or the operation. It was honestly a major tactical error by the Vorta to disclose that. Never tell your opponent what you know. Their pride and overconfidence had made them careless.

Commander Lewis felt for Jason Atwood in what he’d gone through too. The Commander had once been tortured by the Jem’Hadar. He knew what it felt like when you got to that point where even death seemed more appealing than what you were enduring. He’d held strong through that pain then, and he was glad that it seemed Atwood had managed to as well.

A group of Jem’Hadar suddenly charged into the crowd. One of them almost knocked over the Bajoran doctor, Kora Tal, as he grabbed the young woman standing next to her. In total, the Jem’Hadar dragged six colonists onto the stage.

The Vorta looked down at the bruised figure of Jason Atwood, shouting loudly so all could hear: “If you admit you are Starfleet, I let one of these people go. And for each co-conspirator you give up, I will let another one go.”

Atwood spat at the Vorta’s feet: “Go to hell.”

Instantly, the Jem’Hadar shot one of the colonists dead.

Commander Lewis didn’t flinch. Petty Officer Atwood had done exactly what he should have. Maintain your cover for the greater purpose of the mission. Lewis did find the crumpling body of the colonist curious though. Typically, Jem’Hadar would just vaporize you. The low energy setting was telling. The purpose of this event was psychological warfare.

“In fact,” the Vorta said, turning to address the masses. “If any of you turn over a Starfleet officer, I will let one of these fine folks go. You don’t have to die for them. You are good supplicants of our Founders.”

The crowd looked around, almost as if hoping a red, teal or yellow shirt might magically materialize before them. Commander Lewis could sense the guilt his people felt. None of them wanted to watch innocent people die. That wasn’t why they joined the Hazard Team. He hoped they would stick to their training though, just as Jason Atwood had. This was bigger than any one, or six, people.

A single person stepped forward from the crowd.

“I am a Starfleet officer.”

Lewis felt his stomach sink. He didn’t want to look. Who’d given themselves up? In most circumstances, it would be the noble choice, but not this time. Not at the expense of the mission.

Thankfully, when he turned, he saw a haggard old man with a limp and half his teeth stepping forward. Definitely not a Starfleet officer, but rather just an elderly gentleman at the end of his journey who was willing to trade the last few years of his life for the many of another. Lewis could respect that. If he made it to old age, he’d willingly make the same trade.

“I will exchange my life for the life of one of them,” the venerable volunteer continued.

Instantly, a Jem’Hadar soldier shot him where he stood. The life vanished from his tired eyes, and the old man crumpled to the ground right in front of the crowd.

The Vorta walked over to one of the colonists on the stage. 

“We are a merciful Dominion, and we keep our word. You, young lady, you may go,” he said with a perverse smile as he set the young woman free. She fled from the stage and scurried into the crowd. There were still four more colonists, plus Jason Atwood, up there on the stage.

The Vorta turned towards the crowd to address them again.

“You see it, don’t you? An old man has the courage to step forward and trade his life to save another. But this man,” he said, pointing at Jason Atwood, the purpose of his sadistic stratagem now on full display, “a Starfleet officer, he would rather let you die than give up his friends.” 

The Vorta lowered his face to eye level with Petty Officer Atwood and whispered: “This is on you.” 

And the Jem’Hadar opened fire, killing the four remaining colonists on the stage.

Petty Officer Jason Atwood’s arms gave out. He slumped to the surface of the stage. He knew the mission was greater than him, and greater than the lives of the innocent people just slaughtered because of him, but the guilt was just too much to hold himself up any longer.

As Jason Atwood’s head rested on the cold concrete, he looked out at the crowd. There among them, he spotted his boss and mentor, the guy who’d given him a chance when no one else would. For just a moment, they locked eyes.

“I will not break,” said Jason Atwood, struggling to get the words out.

“Yes, you will,” the Vorta laughed flippantly.

The Jem’Hadar First opened fire.

Jason Atwood was dead.

The air went out of Commander Lewis’ lungs. He had just watched a member of his team die right in front of him, and he had done nothing. There was nothing he could have done. The conditions weren’t right. The mission had to go on, or orders of magnitude more would die. He kept telling himself those things over and over, but it was hard, even for the seasoned veteran, to believe it. All around him, he could feel the collective despair of his team juxtaposed with the numb ambivalence of the crowd. 

It wasn’t the voice of Ryssehl, or T’Aer, or Brock Gordon that pulled him back. They too had no words. Even Grok had nothing to say. Instead, it was the soft voice of a young Trill Ensign, only a year out of the Academy, channeling the lives her symbiont had lived before her own: “This mission is greater than any one of us. Jason knew that. There will be time to grieve later. For now, we remember our training, and we depart as we came, in one’s and two’s, carrying on as though this was just a regular meaningless occurrence under the yoke of the Dominion.”

Elyssia Rel had found the words the team needed in their moment of greatest need. She brought them back to the here and now. Commander Lewis breathed a sigh of relief that the flight controller had the clarity of mind when no one else did. And with that, everyone found a way to hold back their emotions, maintain their cover, and return to the safehouse. Except Dr. Hall.