The Prisoner

"Any last words, Major?"

He looked up at me from the floor of my brig, blood running from a gash above his eye, Dominion flight suit torn and scorched. His hands were bound. His ship was debris scattered across three sectors.

And somehow, he smiled.

"You'll need my engineering skills when that explosion reaches life support."

I kept my gun level. "Is that a threat?"

"An observation." He tilted his head toward the reinforced porthole. Beyond it, the station's outer ring burned where his wingman had rammed it during the battle. "That fire's eating toward your primary oxygen processors. Six hours, maybe, before it breaches containment."

"I have engineers."

"You have two. I read the intelligence reports on Outpost Sigma before they sent me to destroy it." He didn't blink. "Skelton and Marsh. Both competent. Neither trained in the kind of pressure systems you're running. But I spent four years in Dominion Engineering Corps before I became a pilot."

On cue, the alarms started.

The red lights painted his face in intervals, and His face went slack for a second, then rearranged itself into resignation.

"That's the fire reaching section seven," he said. "Your oxygen recyclers. The ones that keep three hundred refugees breathing."

I wanted to pull the trigger. Wanted to end this enemy pilot who'd killed six of my people in the dogfight, who'd been sent specifically to finish what the Dominion started when they destroyed my home.

But those three hundred refugees were my responsibility.

"Damn it."

I holstered my sidearm.

His name was Tarek Volkov. Major. Dominion Starfighter Corps. Ace designation. Forty-seven confirmed kills.

I learned this from his tags while my medic patched the wound above his eye. He sat still through the procedure, wrists still bound, watching me with an attention that made my skin prickle.

"Commander Rhea Vance," he said. "Meridian colony. Refugee resistance. Outpost Sigma commander for three years." He paused. "Your kill count is higher than mine."

"You keep count?"

"The Dominion keeps count. They study you. Your tactics. Your decisions." Another pause. "They call you the Sigma Wolf."

"Flattering."

"They're afraid of you."

That surprised me enough to show. I covered it by checking the medic's work, keeping my hands busy with equipment that didn't need checking.

"You're afraid of me," I said.

"Appropriately cautious. You shot me down when I had every advantage." He tested the bandage with bound hands. "But I'm not afraid of dying. I've been ready for that since I enlisted."

"Noble."

"Practical." He met my gaze. "What I'm afraid of is watching three hundred civilians suffocate because you decided executing me was more satisfying than surviving."

The alarms were still blaring. Red light. Red light. Red light.

"Get him on his feet," I told the medic. "He's coming with me to engineering."

Skelton and Marsh were already elbow-deep in the oxygen processors when we arrived. The fire had been contained, barely, but the damage was extensive. Scorched conduits. Melted relays. The acrid smell of burned circuitry.

"Commander." Skelton didn't look up from her work. "We've got maybe four hours before cascade failure. The fire compromised the primary coolant system, which is overheating the processors, which is..."

"Going to suffocate everyone on the station. I understand." I pushed Volkov forward. "This is the pilot who caused the damage. He claims engineering expertise. Use him."

Marsh did look up at that. His expression went through confusion, anger, and something close to disgust before settling on resigned professionalism.

"He knew our names," Marsh said, voice tight. "From their intelligence files."

"Which means we're a known target. One more reason to fix this fast." I took position where I could watch Volkov work while keeping my hand near my sidearm. "Major. Prove you're worth keeping alive."

He knelt beside a shattered conduit and studied the damage for three seconds.

"You're approaching this wrong," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"You're trying to repair the primary system. It's too damaged. But your secondary processors, the ones running backup for the refugee quarters, they have redundant capacity. Reroute power here..." he pointed, "and here, bypass the damaged sections entirely, and you can maintain seventy percent efficiency indefinitely."

Skelton frowned. "That would require reconfiguring the entire distribution network."

"Which takes three hours. Less if you let me help." He looked at me. "Your call, Commander."

Three hours. We had four.

I could almost hear my father's voice from my childhood on Meridian, before the Dominion reduced it to ash. Never trust a wolf, Rhea. Not even when it offers to hunt for you.

But my people needed to breathe.

"Unbind his hands," I said. "And Skelton, if he touches anything I don't authorize, shoot him."

"With pleasure, Commander."

Volkov's expression didn't change as the bindings came off. He just rolled his shoulders once, flexed his fingers, and got to work.

Three hours and forty-seven minutes later, the station's life support stabilized.

I watched the readings normalize, watched Skelton run diagnostics, watched Marsh verify every modification Volkov had made.

Nothing sabotaged. Nothing rigged. Just clean, efficient engineering that had saved three hundred lives.

Including mine.

"Secondary systems are holding," Skelton reported. "He actually improved the efficiency by routing through the auxiliary matrix. We should have thought of that."

Volkov was sitting against the wall, hands bound again, exhaustion carved into his features. He hadn't asked for food or water. Hadn't complained about the restraints. Just worked until the work was done and then quietly surrendered.

Huh. Not exactly the monster the intelligence briefings described.

"Commander." Marsh handed me a datapad. "Initial damage assessment. The battle knocked out our long-range communications. Without the relay dishes, we can't signal for rescue."

I read the numbers. Communications array destroyed. Shield generators at twenty percent. Hull breaches in three sections. Docking bay compromised.

"Time estimate for repairs?"

"Six weeks. Maybe more." Marsh glanced at Volkov. "Assuming we have the expertise."

Six weeks. Stranded at the edge of known space with a Dominion prisoner who'd just proved himself more useful than dangerous.

"Get the Major a cell," I said. "Fed. Watered. Secured."

"And then?"

I looked at Volkov. He looked back. His expression was careful, deliberate, like a man choosing which cards to show.

"And then we figure out how to survive the next six weeks without killing each other."

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"I'll do my best, Commander."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said. "Do exactly what I tell you. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes, ma'am."

I walked away before I could second-guess the decision.

Three hundred people. Six weeks. One enemy who'd already saved us once.

This was either the smartest choice I'd ever made or the kind of mistake that doesn't leave survivors.