Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers

by James Swallow

  “I’m not squeamish about dealing with aliens, Holza. Sometimes I think the First Minister and his cronies are afraid of the idea that there are other races out there.”

  Jas nodded again. While Verin preferred to keep contact with aliens at arm’s length, maintaining that Bajor had always flourished without them, Kubus frequently agitated for more open relations with other worlds. As someone with interests both on Bajor and off it, Jas’s own feelings fell between the two extremes.

  The other man continued. “My people have been trading with the Xepolites, the Lissepians, the Cardassian Union—we’ve been at it for years. They trust my clan. My name is known offplanet. That’s why the Cardassians have come to me with this.”

  “You’ve traded with them on some of the colony worlds, is that right?” Jas got a nod in return. “But they’ve never come into our space before.”

  “Not formally, not until today. It’s a historic moment, Holza. In the future, you’ll be telling your grandchildren about it.” Kubus flashed a smile. “And I have to say, I admired the astute way you exploited the opportunity presented to you.”

  “Exploited?” Jas raised an eyebrow.

  The other man’s smile turned sly. “Come now, Holza, don’t play the innocent. You could have stood by and let Verin take control of the situation, but you didn’t. You saw a chance and you took it. That’s the sign of a perceptive leader.”

  “I want what is best for Korto, and Bajor.” Jas covered his frown with another sip of tea.

  “As do I.” Kubus sighed. “It’s no secret that my views on openness have made me something of an outsider in the council—I freely admit that. Thanks to my previous dealings with the offworlders, the Cardassians are reaching out to me to act as their planetary liaison, and there are some who view me with suspicion. I am here today to ascertain if you are one of them, Minister Jas.”

  Jas shook his head slowly. “I may not have the reach of your ships and your organization, Oak, but I will admit I do hear some merit in your words. I don’t see the harm in allowing these aliens to make formal contact with our world. As you say, this is a historic moment. The first time a Cardassian has set foot on Bajor.”

  “Yes,” Kubus said, almost to himself.

  Jas found himself warming to the subject. “Perhaps this is the time for Bajor to reconsider its place in galactic politics.”

  Kubus’s smile widened. “I see that you and I drink from the same well, my friend! Indeed, a formal relationship with the Cardassian Union will be good for Bajor. It could usher in a new age of prosperity for our planet…and for the men who understand how to turn it to their advantage.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “After all, we outsiders should stick together, yes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kubus gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve heard of the issues that face Korto District. Your journey to Batal this week? I don’t think it would be impolite of me to say that your standing with the council is not what it should be.” He nodded to himself. “That will soon be a thing of the past.”

  Jas kept his expression unchanged, but inside he felt a flare of concern. That he had verbally crossed swords with Verin on the floor of the Chamber of Ministers was a matter of public record, but the business in Batal was supposed to have been a secret…He stopped himself. There was nothing to say that Kubus knew the extent of Jas’s problems, and he had to be careful not to give any more away. Still, the man was correct. Korto District and its leader had done very poorly in the political arena in recent months. Kubus was as perceptive as Jas had expected; he could understand how Jas had seen the arrival of the aliens as a chance to raise his profile once more, to put Korto back on the map. The other minister was right. Perhaps they did have more in common than either of them realized.

  And yet… There was something in Kubus’s manner that did not sit well with Jas. As Kubus sat there, smiling thinly, Jas sensed that the politician was holding something back, that he had knowledge Jas simply wasn’t privy to. His hands drew together across his desk and he studied the other man with fresh eyes. For the second time that day, Jas realized that he was on the verge of making a decision that would shift the course of his life. He narrowed his eyes and searched inside himself to find a focus. I’m in a different arena now, he told himself. New rules to learn. New players to play against. New allies…and enemies.

  “So,” said Kubus, gesturing with one hand. “We should discuss the arrangements for the reception for our visitors.”

  Darrah Mace slid the door closed in time to hear his wife raise her voice from the landing upstairs. “If I have to tell you again,” she was saying, “then everyone will stay home tonight and you’ll have to keep your renewal scrolls until next year.”

  He frowned and made his way to the upper floor of the apartment, treading softly.

  “You know what happens then?” Karys continued, her words filtering along from the master bedroom. “All the problems and bad things you wrote down on this year’s scrolls won’t go away and you’ll be stuck with them for another year! So put on your good tunic, or we won’t go to the festival!”

  “I don’t like that one,” Bajin complained. Mace stifled a smirk. Karys’s mother in Ashalla had bought the boy the tunic for his birthday in some fancy store in the capital, but the ten-year-old hated it. He was like his father that way, preferring the simple cut to anything extravagant.

  “I don’t—” Karys began as Mace entered the room.

  Nell, sitting quietly on the bed in her sky-blue wrap, exploded into life and threw herself at him. “Daddy!” She was only six, but she moved like lightning, and grabbed on to the constable so hard he was almost winded.

  “Hey, Dad.” Bajin’s face lit up as well.

  “Peldor Joi, everybody,” Mace returned, nodding to Karys. His wife refused to give him a smile in return.

  “Constable Darrah,” she began, “nice of you to join us. Could you help me here by telling your son to get properly dressed?”

  Mace shot the boy a look. “Hey, ’Jin. Do what your mother tells you. Go get the tunic.”

  “I don’t like it,” he repeated.

  “And I don’t care,” Mace said firmly. “Go on. You won’t have to wear it again until next year, I promise. And at the rate you’re growing, you’ll be too big for it by then anyhow.”

  Dejected, the boy shuffled out of the room. Mace bent down to give Nell a peck on the cheek and then gave her a gentle shove. “Hey, go make sure your brother does what he’s told, okay?”

  The little girl’s head bobbed in a nod and she ran out after her sibling, leaving the parents alone. Mace gave a weak smile and went to the closet, shrugging off his duty tunic along the way.

  “You actually made it home before we left,” said Karys, putting up her hair. “I suppose I should be thankful.”

  Mace leafed through his clean clothes. “Well, hold your applause. I may have just upset a member of the Chamber of Ministers to do it. Besides, I promised the kids.” He found a clean Militia-brown tunic and pulled it out.

  “You’ve promised a lot of things,” she retorted. “A house instead of living in this stacker. Better prospects for us. No more long shifts.”

  “I can’t earn enough for a better place by working less, Karys.”

  “Then just—” She turned to face him and stopped.

  “What are you putting on?”

  “A clean uniform tunic.” He ran his thumb up the seal tab and picked up his belt. “The other one’s a little sweaty. I’ve had it on all day.”

  Karys’s voice rose. “You said you’d quit early today, Mace. Quit. As in ‘off-duty,’ as in ‘not a constable.’ Why are you wearing your uniform?”

  “It’s a formal city function,” he retorted. “I’m a law officer. People will expect it of me. I have to be seen.”

  “Oh, right,” she snapped back. “And if there’s some trouble, if someone gets rowdy, will you have to be a law officer then? Will you leave me and the children to
go chasing some bag-snatcher? Can’t you let go of that job for one single hour?” Karys fingered the D’jarra ornament on her earring, as she always did when she was annoyed with him.

  “It’s what I do!” Just like that, he was snarling at her, falling back into old patterns.

  “You’re arguing.” The voice from the door made them both stop dead. Bajin was there, the ugly tunic in his hand, frowning.

  “We’re not arguing,” said Karys, abashed. “We’re just talking loudly.”

  “That’s what arguing is,” replied the boy, with a child’s relentless logic. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

  Mace gave a weak smile. “We’re sorry, son.” He paused for a moment, and then threw off his duty jacket, reaching for a clean-cut black shirt instead. “C’mon, everyone finish getting dressed. If we stay here talking all night, we’ll miss the ceremony and all the toasted buns will be sold by the time we get there.”

  A grin emerged on Bajin’s face. “Okay.”

  He glanced at Karys. “Okay?”

  She stood and helped him button the shirt, the corners of her mouth quirking upward for the first time. “Okay.”

  Sunset had turned the sky a gorgeous burnt umber by the time they reached the City Oval. In every boulevard in every district of Korto, street parties were gearing up, and there was an atmosphere of infectious excitement that was hard to ignore. On the breeze there were the smells of cooking food, bateret incense, and hot, sugary snacks. Voices were raised in song, all of it good-natured if not always tuneful; here and there massive streetscreens were showing imagery from other festivals in other cities, with scenes from the Grand Avenue of Lights in Ashalla, the flame dancers on Tilar’s beaches, even shots via subspace of celebrations on Prophet’s Landing and Andros.

  Here in Korto it seemed as if the entire population had emptied out of the tenements and come to fill the streets. They skirted past a group of performers who played out one of Lupar’s Summer Tales, the one with the fisherman and the angry sea serpent.

  The children laughed and danced around them, play-fighting and making faces. Darrah shooed them forward every time they tried to dawdle around the stalls selling jumja on sticks or trinkets for the festival. Nell had already made him buy her a glow-streamer, and the little girl cut outlines in the air with it.

  Just watching her and Bajin brought him a good mood, and it eased the tension that Darrah had been feeling all week, but it was still difficult for him to ease back from being a police officer, and he felt a little foolish in the black shirt, as if he were making some half hearted effort at going undercover. He was so used to prowling the festival and having the crowds part dutifully around the uniform he wore. It felt odd to go civilian, and he had to rein in his natural reflex to scrutinize the revelers, looking for shifty expressions and lawbreakers in the making. He tried to relax.

  His work, his conflicts with Karys, and now this new thing about the aliens visiting—what he needed right now was a few hours to breathe, to get it out of his system. He glanced at his wife. She was right, really. She was right about most things, and despite how annoying that could be at times, it was one of the reasons why he loved her so much. Karys was right when she told him that the Militia was taking over his life.

  But then there were the other things she said. She was always telling him that he was going nowhere. She wanted him to push for a promotion. She wanted him to do better so they could move from the apartment block near the canals and get a better place, a real home, in the hills. Darrah wanted those things just as much as Karys did, but she didn’t seem to understand that advancements didn’t happen overnight. Hard work brings rewards—that was the ethic he’d been brought up with as a Ke’lora, the D’jarra that encompassed the families of laborers, lawmen, and craftsmen. Unaware that he was watching her, his wife brushed her straight black hair over her shoulder, revealing her silver earring against the tawny skin of her face. Although they were married, one of the adornments on Karys’s ear still reflected the D’jarra she had been born into, the artistic Ih’valla. She had never made an issue of it in all the years they had been together, but Karys had married below her station when she had accepted Darrah’s proposal. Her clan had made it difficult for them at first; it was only with the birth of Bajin that Darrah had finally been considered an “acceptable” husband.

  They crossed through a cordon outside the edge of the Oval, one of the watchmen on duty recognizing Darrah and raising an eyebrow at his choice of clothing, but saying nothing. Only the more moneyed clans and those of the upper tiers of the D’jarras were allowed this far. In other circumstances, not even an Ih’valla and certainly not a Ke’lora would have been allowed inside the perimeter—but some things transcended the borders of caste, and being a senior law enforcer was one of them. As much as Karys might quietly dislike the commonplace life she led as a constable’s wife, at times like this Darrah imagined she was quite happy with it.

  They halted in front of the massive brass and iron brazier at the foot of the bantaca spire. Bajin kept playing with his hair, deliberately mussing it, so Darrah pressed a couple of litas into the lad’s hand and sent him off to get buns. Nell trailed after him, singing a nursery rhyme about the Celestial Temple.

  Karys took his hand. “What’s on your scroll this year?” she asked him.

  Mace fingered the ceremonial paper in his pocket. “Ah. The usual. I’m asking the Prophets to make sure my children don’t age me too early, to see that anyone who shoots at me has lousy aim, to make my debts go away…”

  She lowered her voice. “You know, Mother made the offer again.”

  He put a finger on her lips. “We’re not taking her money, Karys. We’ve been through this. I don’t care how many sculptures she’s sold, I’m not going to owe her.”

  For a second, he thought she was going to argue, but then his wife sighed. “Let’s not fight about this again. Not tonight. Can we talk about it some other time?”

  “All right,” Mace agreed, but even as he said it he resolved not to be shifted on the issue.

  She tilted her head back to let her gaze range up the sides of the spire, and Mace did the same. Streamers in red and gold hung down from the stone obelisk and fluttered in the cool evening breeze. Carved from stone blocks that were so finely crafted that they locked together without need of cement or mortar, the bantaca was said to mark the place of a settlement in relationship to the rest of the universe. Darrah saw that the stars were coming out overhead, and he wondered if that could be true. If what Lonnic and Gar had told him about the Cardassians was accurate, then very soon Korto would indeed be marked as an important place, known out there as well as down here. The thought of the aliens coming to Bajor, of them standing where he stood now, sent a chill snaking down Mace’s back. Things will change, he told himself, but I’m not sure how.

  Karys squeezed his hand, sensing that something was troubling him. “I’m glad that you came tonight.”

  “Me too,” he admitted, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  “Ah, young love,” said Lonnic as she approached. “It’s a delight to see.”

  Mace’s wife broke into a grin and gave the other woman a brief hug of greeting. “Good to see you, Tomo.” She gestured at her formal dress. “You’re as elegant as ever.”

  “Too kind,” Lonnic demurred.

  “Thank you for letting my husband off his duties early,” she added. “It’s very generous of Minister Jas.”

  “Generous, yes.” Tomo eyed Mace, who maintained an air of blank innocence. “That’s one way to look at it.” She leaned closer to Darrah and lowered her voice. “You owe Proka a drink, I would say. He covered for you at the keep.”

  Mace nodded slightly. “I appreciate it.”

  Tomo smiled thinly. “Don’t worry. After spending thirty seconds in the same room as Kubus Oak, I don’t think I would have wanted to ferry him around either. He’s gone back to Qui’al, thank the Prophets.”

  “I don’t think we’v
e seen the last of him, though,” Darrah opined. “Where’s the minister?”

  She pointed along the bantaca’s steps to where a temporary podium had been set up. Jas Holza was behind it, waving to the crowds and beaming into the lenses of a dozen camera drones. “Right there. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

  Mace turned back to his wife as the children came swarming around them, faces sticky with icing. “Did you bring us buns?” he asked Bajin.

  Licking powdered sugar off his lips, the boy gave him the same innocent look Darrah had shown Lonnic only moments earlier. “Oh. Did you want some too?”

  Jas Holza placed the padd containing his speech on the lectern in front of him and waved as the illuminators came up to full strength. A blink of indicators on the drifting orbs of the camera drones showed him that he was now being broadcast across the city and the district, and it pleased him to hear Korto quieted as he started his address. For all his problems in the greater political arena, at least in the city of his birth his people still respected him.

  “Peldor Joi, my friends,” he began. “It gives me great pleasure to stand before you today as Presider of Korto’s Gratitude Festival. Ours is a city of proud and hardworking people, an example of Bajoran endeavor that shines like a jewel in Kendra’s beautiful countryside.” He smiled slightly. “But we all know, whatever circumstances our D’jarras saw us born to, from the lowliest man to the most noble, that no life goes on without regrets. No great city like ours is built without hardship.” A swell of polite agreement crossed the crowd, and Jas scanned their faces, gauging their emotions. “All of us have worked hard this year, and tonight we come together to do two things.” He took an ornate scroll trimmed with latinum leafing from his pocket. “We cast our troubles to the air by writing them upon our renewal scrolls and letting the fires consume them; and then we give thanks to the Prophets for watching over us for all the good fortune we have had in the year passed by, and in hopes for all the promise yet to come.”