Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers

by James Swallow

  “Trustworthy.” Syjin smiled a little. “That’s not a term many apply to me.” The smile faded. “She cried all the way there, you know. She wasn’t doing it out of hate. It’s just…I don’t think she can take it here anymore, and she’s not the only one. People are leaving in droves.” The pilot sighed. “Look, I’m taking some more folks out in a couple of days. There’s space for you as well, Mace. Just pack a bag and come. You could patch things up, you’re a smart guy. You could—”

  “I can’t,” Darrah said quietly. “I want to, but I can’t.” He looked up and out over the city. “I can’t leave all this undone, Syjin. Something’s wrong here. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure of it.”

  The pilot gave a bitter laugh. “Sure it’s wrong! Bajor’s being pulled apart around us. But we’re just ordinary men. What can we do but get out while we still can?”

  Darrah shook his head. “I’m not going to walk away from this. The attacks, the Cardassians, it’s all converging. I can see it in the air. Someone has to follow this as far as it goes.”

  “Why does it have to be you?”

  He shot Syjin a look. “Because who else is going to do it? I can’t follow Karys to Valo knowing this is behind me.”

  “She won’t wait forever,” said the other man, after a long moment.

  “I know.” Darrah nodded and looked up into the sky.

  “But I have a job to do. The truth about what’s really going on is buried out there somewhere, and I’m going to bring it to light.”

  Bennek awoke with a jerk. Beside him, Tima shifted beneath the sheets and mumbled something incoherent. The cleric felt awkward and uncomfortable, as if something in the room had changed without his knowledge. He moved slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. His hand was touching the tab for the lamp when he saw the shape of a man-shadow across from him, in the old wicker chair.

  “Don’t,” said Dukat, barely a breath above a whisper.

  “You’ll wake the Bajoran.”

  Despite the blood-warm heat inside the enclave blockhouse, Bennek’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. “What…Why are you in my quarters?” He hissed back, shooting Tima a furtive glance. He felt sick; how long had Dukat been there? Hours? Had he seen them together?

  As if he intuited Bennek’s train of thought, Dukat’s next words had a smile in them. “She’s quite attractive, for an alien. As time passes, I’m finding it easier to understand the allure of their women. Tell me, cleric, should I try it for myself?”

  “You won’t touch her,” Bennek husked, teeth bared.

  “No?” There was a soft clink and the shadow moved, helping itself to some of the kanar left in a decanter on the table. “Hm. A fair vintage, if somewhat functional.”

  Bennek eased himself to the edge of the bed. He glanced at the inert lamp, wondering if it would serve him as a weapon if the soldier tried to attack him.

  Dukat drained the glass and set it down. “While you have slept, Bennek, while you have dallied here with your masks and scrolls, things have altered. I’m here to tell you about the change in order.”

  “Change?”

  A nod. “Oh, indeed. I’m afraid that Hadlo has gone to join Oralius. He and all the dissidents who fled Cardassia rather than cooperate with the authorities.”

  The priest felt an odd flutter in his chest. “He’s dead…”

  “They all are. Your church, such as it is, no longer exists beyond the surface of this planet. All that remains of the Oralian Way is now on Bajor, and you are their leader.” He paused. “Take a moment, Bennek. I understand this is a lot to process all at once.”

  The bedsheets bunched in his hands, and Tima murmured again, turning away from him. “You did this.”

  “Does that matter? All that is important now is your responsibility. To your faith, to your followers, to the pretty sleeping Bajoran, to your own life. If you want any of those things to last to the dawn, then you must understand that.”

  “You’re lying,” Bennek whispered.

  Dukat leaned forward, and Bennek caught a glitter of light from the man’s dark eyes. “Don’t be foolish. I’ve never lied to you, Bennek. I have no need to.”

  The priest took a shuddering breath. Dukat was telling the truth, it was there in every word he said. Bennek tried to take it all in and gasped. If it’s true…If we are all that is left of the Way, then what must I do? He recalled Hadlo’s words in the library, his exhortation to protect the faith at any cost. Finally he looked again at the shadowy figure. “What do you want of me?”

  Dukat smiled in the dimness. “The preservation of what you hold balances on that most Cardassian of traits, Bennek. Obedience.” He got up slowly. “You have the ear of poor Kai Meressa. Convince her that the defense pact will benefit Bajor. Ensure she does not try to sway the Vedek Assembly toward a veto.”

  “And if I cannot?”

  “Then it will not go well for the last children of Oralius.” He turned his back on the assignation and walked quietly toward the door.

  “I have your word?” Bennek hissed, and got a nod in return. “But where are you going?”

  Dukat hesitated. “Home,” he explained. “Central Command has seen fit to reward me with a promotion for my service to the Union.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze like iron. “But don’t worry, priest. This planet interests me. I’ll be back.”

  ONE MONTH AGO

  2328 (Terran Calendar)

  18

  “The power that moves through me animates my life,” said the Cardassian woman, her hands spread to the dull sky. “It animates the mask of Oralius, to speak her words with my voice—”

  The burly, balding man at the base of the bantaca’s steps shouted at the top of his lungs. “Take your voice somewhere else!” A growl of approval came from the crowd of Bajorans standing with him. “Go back to your shantytown! The Prophets don’t want you here, spoonhead!”

  “This is going to ignite,” said Proka, from the side of his mouth. “You want me to defuse it?”

  Darrah ran a hand through his hair and frowned. “No. If we cap this here today, they’ll just blow off steam somewhere else, maybe when we’re not around. Let it play out.” The chief inspector kept close to the parked police flyers, his eyes ranging over the handful of Watch officers that had been assigned to keep order across the City Oval. Not enough, he told himself. There’s never enough of us.

  “At least we don’t have to stand side by side with Cardie troopers,” Proka hissed, picking up on his commander’s thoughts. “I’m so sick of that ‘Cardassian citizen, Cardassian jurisdiction’ crap.”

  Darrah nodded and said nothing. What am I doing here? He asked himself. He had a small but clean office back in the precinct that he hardly used; instead he was out on the street, ghosting the foot patrols and the airborne units like he did every day. His men liked to say that Darrah Mace was “hands-on,” but there was more to it than that. He was driven. “Can’t stem the tide from behind a desk,” he said aloud.

  “Boss?” said Proka.

  Darrah indicated the bald man. “We got anything on mouthy over there?”

  The senior constable nodded, reading from a padd. “Couple of alert flags, suspected involvement with the Circle. Nothing we can prove, though. Cardassians pulled him for allegedly making trouble out at the enclave, but nothing came of it. I think that’s where he might have lost the finger.”

  He looked and saw that, indeed, the bald Bajoran had no index finger on his right hand. “Huh. No wonder he’s pissed at them.”

  “That’s why he’s here with his friends. Cardassians don’t give a damn about the Oralians, which makes them a soft target.”

  “And to the Circle, a Cardassian is a Cardassian is a Cardassian.” The activist group, under its more grandiose title of Alliance for Global Unity, had grown from a minor impediment to a thorn in the Militia’s side over the last five years—a matter not helped by the fact that many Militia officers quietly sympathized with the mil
itant isolationists.

  There were maybe a dozen of the Oralians at the foot of the spire, holding one of their interminable recitations. Darrah scanned their faces, noticing that there were a couple of Bajorans among the Cardassians, swaddled in the pastel-colored robes. He still found it strange to imagine that a Bajoran could find any meaning in an alien religion, but the choice wasn’t for anyone else to make for them, despite what the Circle’s propaganda leaflets said.

  The woman was trying to go on. “Oralius is the Way of love,” she was saying. “Her path parallels that of your Prophets, can you not see that?”

  It was the opening the bald man wanted. “I’ll tell you what I see, offworlder! I see you masked fools here in my city, trying to take us from the side of the Prophets!” The crowd grumbled in agreement. “It’s your kind who are turning Bajor into a ghetto!” He waved his hand toward the mountains. “Who was it that made me lose my job at the ore works, when they came and bought out the mines to strip them bare? Cardassians! Who is raping our lands, paying off the greedy with your damned technology? Cardassians!” The man stepped forward, shooting a look at the police presence, clearly gauging his chances. “We have to listen to the newsfeeds telling us that our Cardassian friends are keeping the Tzenkethi at bay from that snake’s nest of yours on Derna, but what is really going on? Our ministers are selling out our world to Cardassia and tightening the noose around our necks!”

  “The followers of the Way have nothing to do with the Cardassian Union anymore,” said the priest, her voice taking on an angry tone. “If you cannot see past the color of my skin to that fact, then nothing I can say will convince you otherwise!”

  The man laughed harshly. “Then we agree on something!”

  “Get ready,” Darrah said quietly. This scene had played out so many times, he could predict the moment the flashpoint would come with uncanny accuracy. The bitter thought made him sullen. Confrontations like this one were repeated all over Bajor; they had become a matter of everyday life, surges in the slow-burning discontent that underscored everything. Five years, Darrah thought, five years and no reprisal of any note as payment in kind for the attacks. Is it any wonder that everyone is still angry, still searching for somewhere to direct the anger?

  The man stabbed a finger at the Bajorans in Oralian robes. “And you! You’re the worst, willingly giving yourselves over to them.” He glared at the priest. “You’re polluting the faith of our people, indoctrinating our kind!”

  “It’s not like that at all,” argued one of the converts.

  “Be quiet!” roared the man. “You’re traitors to the Celestial Temple!” He reached for a pocket, and his hand returned with a blunt club; behind him the crowd came forward.

  “Now,” Darrah snapped, and Proka and his men reacted with a clatter of drawn phasers.

  “Step back!” barked the constable, a pickup in his communicator amplifying his voice through the public address speakers on the parked flyers.

  Jeers and catcalls erupted among the mass of people as Darrah stepped up to where the Cardassian woman stood, a pistol in his hand. He took a curl of her robes and pulled her toward him. She smelled of dust and the odd, metallic sweat of her species. “You need to take your acolytes and go,” he snapped.

  “We have a right to be here,” she retorted. “The First Minister—”

  “Right now,” Darrah growled, “unless Oralius wants more martyrs.”

  She saw the iron-hard glare in his eyes and nodded, retreating back toward the rest of the hooded group.

  “You see?” shouted the bald man, and he spat. “You see? Even the City Watch are against us!” He shook a fist in Darrah’s face. “Are you bought and paid for too, lawman? Is that your job?”

  A hot flare of resentment shot through Darrah, and without warning he smashed the butt of his phaser down on the bridge of the bald man’s nose. It broke with a wet crack, and the protester went to his knees, a fan of blood gushing over his lips. “My job?” Darrah snarled. “You don’t know a damn thing about it.”

  Dukat found the look of profound irritation on the senior officer’s face quite amusing. “Jagul Kell. Here you are.”

  “It’s Gul Dukat now, isn’t it?” Kell retorted, crossing the room. “Get out of my chair, Gul.”

  “Of course.” Dukat stood up and stepped away from the ornate desk. It was the same one Kell had used in the Dahkur embassy; in fact, almost everything in the jagul’s duty office was the same; doubtless the man had given orders to transfer all the trappings of his rank and pomposity to the naval base here on the Derna moon the moment it had been completed.

  Kell’s irritation diminished as he took his rightful position. Dukat had deliberately come to the man’s chamber unannounced and taken his seat just to rattle his former commander; Kell was overly fond of making a performance out of his superiority, and if he could not assert his control over a meeting at the very start, it made him petulant and uncomfortable. Dukat’s amusement at scoring points on the man waned quickly, however; it was, in the end, a worthless exercise.

  Kell eyed him. “I have a briefing in a few minutes. Whatever you want had better be something you can tell me quickly.”

  Setting his agenda before I have even spoken, thought Dukat. He’s the same fool he was the day we set foot on Bajor.

  “I noted your deployment to this sector with the Vandir,” Kell continued, giving him the smallest amount of attention he could. “I believe you have your assignments from Central Command already. Do you need some approval from me?”

  Dukat shook his head. “Actually, Jagul, I am here to inform you of additional mission objectives in my assignment here at Derna Base.” The name made his lip curl. The facility on Derna was hardly worthy of the name; it was less an outpost than a series of revetments and temporary docks that ships could use between sorties. He imagined that more of the facility’s functions were turned toward the covert needs of the Obsidian Order than the Union’s navy.

  “And those objectives are?” Kell demanded.

  “Twofold. Firstly, to impress upon you Command’s desire to annex Bajor…something that in ten years you have yet to achieve.”

  Kell’s eyes flashed with anger. “You share that responsibility with me, Dukat. Let us not forget whose plan it was that brought us to this state of affairs.”

  “I provided you with an opportunity, Jagul. Command feels you have not fully exploited it.”

  “Command is light-years away,” grated the other man.

  “Things here are more complex than they might appear from an office on Cardassia Prime.”

  “No doubt,” Dukat allowed. “Nevertheless, I am here to impress upon you that occupation must be formalized, and soon. If not, then other men may have to take your posting here.” He gestured around at the opulent office.

  The jagul folded his arms, seething quietly. “And the second objective?”

  “It appears that the United Federation of Planets has taken an interest in the situation on Bajor. They are considering open political opposition to our presence in the sector.”

  Kell snorted. “The Federation? Toothless, posturing fools, all of them. Let them bray and talk about sanctions and their stern displeasure.”

  “It would be unwise to underestimate Starfleet.”

  The other man glared at him from behind the desk. “I am ranking officer here, and it will be my choice to decide what is and is not wise.” He gave Dukat a sharp wave of the hand. “You may tell Command that you have delivered your messages. Now get out of my office and return to your duties.”

  Dukat nodded, letting the jibe roll off him. “I intend to do exactly that.”

  The Xepolite transport touched down on the apron at Korto starport with a sound that was somewhere between the noise of a dying bovine and a case of cutlery thrown down a staircase. The ungainly ship, little more than a collection of cargo pods mated to a drive module, sagged on its landing gear and shed a cloud of rust fragments. The main hatch dilated in fits and
starts until finally it was wide enough for the ship’s owner and his most recent passengers to disembark. The captain, like his vessel, was grubby but quite quick, and he followed the two Bajoran women down the egress ramp.

  “So, here we are, home sweet home,” he sniffed, fishing a patched padd from his pocket. “And as such, if you would be so kind?”

  “Thanks for the ride, Hetman Foroe,” the older female answered him, the one with the severe face and the shoulder-length blond hair. She seemed to do most of the talking, while the other one, with the large, nervous mouth and black, stringy plaits, hovered nearby. Over the course of their journey, he’d attempted to fathom the dimensions of the relationship between the two Bajorans with little success. Sisters? Lovers? He couldn’t find a pattern that fitted. Still, his curiosity about them was fading with the prospect of money changing hands. The blond woman tapped a code into the padd, releasing the second half of Foroe’s fee, and with that their transaction was complete.

  “My pleasure,” he said, examining the string of digits. When he looked up from the padd, they were walking away with their bags over their shoulders. “Hey,” he said, jogging to catch up. “Now the business part is behind us, I’m curious—”

  “No, we don’t want a drink with you,” said the older woman. What was she called? Al-something? Ally? Alo?

  “Alla,” said the hetman, recalling her name. “I wouldn’t dream of it. No, it’s just that I was wondering about something.” He glanced at the dark-haired one. Her name is Wenna, isn’t it? “The thing is, most of the Bajorans I deal with are trying to get away from their home planet these days, what with the Cardassians and the unrest and all. But you two came all the way back here from a perfectly nice colony on Draygo. Why is that?”

  “Our aunt is sick,” said Wenna abruptly. “We’re going to Relliketh to look after her.”