“Oh.” Foroe wasn’t convinced, but he had other prospects to pursue at the other end of the port. His contact would be waiting for him, and if he didn’t get there in time, the load he expected to be smuggling to Prophet’s Landing would be gone. “Well, I hope she gets well soon. And if you ever need a ride back to Draygo—”
Alla cut him off with a withering glare. “Oh, we’ll call you, count on it.”
As soon as the Xepolite was out of earshot, the older woman turned and shot her companion a look. “What have I told you?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
She frowned and flicked straw-colored hair from her eyes. “Don’t volunteer information. It’s a sure sign of an amateur working from a prepared legend. He didn’t need to know we were going to Relliketh. The bit about the aunt was enough.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant—”
She shoved the other woman up against the wall of a hangar. “What did you just say?” she hissed. “Did you just call me Lieutenant?” She mimed the shape of a pistol at her head. “Zap. You just got us both killed. If someone heard you slip like that, we’re blown, the mission is over.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” said the dark-haired woman, and she rubbed at the ridges on her nose. “This is all new to me. It’s not what I expected. I’m just an analyst—”
The blond woman slapped the hand away. “Stop that,” she said, and stepped back. “Look. You’re here for two reasons. First, because you’re the best available expert in xeno-anthropology and Bajoran cultural studies, and second, because that cute Welsh accent of yours is, by some quirk of interplanetary linguistics, not too dissimilar to the way they speak down in the southeastern provinces. While you are here, you are Jonor Wenna, you understand me? Because Lieutenant Junior Grade Gwen Jones doesn’t exist right now. She’ll stay that way until we’re done here.”
“Yes,” said Gwen, gathering herself. “Hello. My name’s Wenna. I’m from Relliketh—” She stopped. “Right. Sorry. Don’t volunteer information.”
“Better.”
The dark-haired girl studied the other woman. “And what about Lieutenant Alynna Nechayev of Starfleet Intelligence? Where is she?”
“My name is Alla,” said Alynna. “I don’t know this Nechayev woman you’re talking about.” There was a weariness in her words. “She must be some kind of ghost.”
From the ramp of his ship in the neighboring hangar, Syjin watched the two women walk off and cocked his head, wondering. The shorter one is pretty, in a rural kind of way. The other one, though, too much like hard work. I know the type.
The loading chief, a large dark man named Wule, crossed over to him, wiping grease from his fingers. “Ho,” he called. “That’s the last one off. You’re clear to lift once Traffic Control gives you the go.”
Syjin nodded. “Thanks. I just hope the Cardassians don’t decide to stop and search me again. That’s why I hardly ever come back here these days…” He shook his head. “Every time I return to Bajor it’s like…like I’m visiting a sick old friend, and he’s closer to death each time.”
“It’s what things have come to,” Wule agreed. “Not like the old days. I can’t remember the last time I saw you lift empty.”
“Not empty for long,” Syjin insisted. “I got a gig. I’m picking up some cargo.”
“Coming back here with it?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He smiled briefly. “Don’t sweat it, I’ve got a little something for you, if you smooth the way with customs for me.”
“What?” Wule eyed him.
“Agnam loaf. I know you love it.”
The dock chief nodded eagerly. “Say no more. Just don’t get jumped by the spoonheads when you come back, though. They catch you with proscribed goods on board and you’ll be disappeared…”
“It’s food, not particle cannons,” mocked the pilot.
“Hardly worth spacing me over.”
Wule gave him a grave look. “Don’t be so sure, my friend, don’t be so sure.” He paused at the threshold. “Where’s the rendezvous? You know the Cardies have upped their patrols out past Pullock.”
Syjin nodded, running through his preflight checks. “I heard. That’s why I’m going to be nowhere near the Badlands.” Wule threw him a salute, and the hatch slammed closed behind him.
The destination for the rendezvous with his Ferengi contact had been chosen at random and transmitted on an encrypted channel. Grek, the lop-eared little troll, had a cargo of some of the best rare edibles this side of the Orion sector, and Syjin had buyers all over Bajor ready to purchase them. Although it was bad for everything else, at least in this case the Cardassian presence was good for making such trades scarce, and therefore more lucrative.
He glanced at the navigator matrix and punched in the coordinates. Grek would be waiting for him in orbit around a gas giant, in some nondescript, uninhabited system called Ajir.
They walked for a while, out of the port and into the city proper beyond. Gwen Jones had to rein herself in, stop herself from gawking like a sightseer. Outwardly, she played the part of a Bajoran girl from the south with somewhere to go, something to do. Inside, Jones wanted to stop and look at everything. She had been studying the Bajoran culture for some time, and it fascinated her. Not in a million years had she expected to be plucked from her predictable work at the Office of Cultural Analysis and thrown directly into a covert surveillance mission, with only a taciturn field operative like Nechayev for company.
But now she was here, on Bajor, seeing in the flesh all the things that she had read about in reports and purloined pieces of alien literature. She wanted to stop, to take a tram to the bantaca or visit a temple, to try real hasperat or go to the parks and see the mirror lakes…
“Eyes front,” said Nechayev quietly. “Quit staring. This isn’t a field trip.”
Jones nodded. It was anything but that. From what her briefing had told her, the Federation had been conducting clandestine cultural observation of Bajor for many years, dating back to just before the outbreak of border skirmishes between the UFP and the Cardassian Union. It was only in recent times, with the shift in the political axis between independent Bajor and the expansionist Union, that the Federation Security Council had decided to take a closer look at what was taking place in the B’hava’el system. More Cardassian ships meant it was harder to insert passive probes to monitor the circumstances there. What was needed was “human intelligence,” or, as Nechayev had described it, “eyes on the ground.” Jones didn’t know the full extent of things—her clearance level wasn’t that high—but she’d picked up a few hints from her mission orders. She knew that Bajoran exiles on Valo II and other colonies were agitating for intervention on Bajor, and that Starfleet had to be giving the idea serious consideration or else she and Nechayev would not have been here; but the interstellar political climate was complex, and as time went on, there seemed less and less chance that the Federation would become openly involved.
Nechayev halted at an empty tram stop and made a show of looking at the timetable. “We’re not being followed,” she told her. “And three Cardassian skimmers passed us on the way without even giving us a look. I think we’re clean.”
“What now?” Jones asked.
“Now we locate our contact, and we get the data we need.”
“Do you have a name?”
Nechayev nodded. “Jekko Tybe.”
“You look well.” As soon as Mace said it, he felt awkward. The hiss of subspace interference whispered around his precinct office for the second of delay it took the signal to reach the Valo II relay.
Karys gave a rueful smile. “I wish I could say the same thing about you, Mace. You look tired.”
“It’s just work,” he said, and regretted it instantly.
“It usually is,” she replied. “So. What do you want?”
“I had some time,” Mace lied.
“Time?” she repeated. “All civilian subspace communications traffic into B’hava’el has
slowed to almost nothing. I hear the Cardassians are blocking all but the military channels.”
He nodded. “And they screen everything else. It’s part of the security program, looking for sedition or alien infiltrators.” Mace nodded at the screen. “But I have some pull.”
“You’re abusing your authority to appropriate airtime to call your family,” she replied. “Does that count as seditious?”
“Damned if I care.” He sighed. “I just…” He wanted to tell her that he had beaten a man down and it didn’t bother him one bit, that suddenly all he wanted was to see the only good things in his life and make sure they were still there; but he kept that closed off. “I wanted to check in with you, see how Nell and ’Jin are doing.”
She saw the lie but she didn’t call him on it. “Nell’s met a boy. He’s polite. Bajin has been very brotherly. He thinks I don’t know that he threatened all kinds of trouble if Nell’s heart gets broken.”
A smile crossed his face. “You tell them I love them.”
“Every day,” she told him. “They miss you. And so do I.”
The last words brought him up short. “You do? I thought the divorce put an end to that kind of thing. I just thought you would have, you know…” He trailed off.
“Found someone else?” Karys shook her head. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When we talk now, we just talk. We don’t fight. And all it took was for me to fly a dozen light-years away from you.”
He nodded slowly. “Best thing that’s ever happened to our relationship.” He sighed. “Come on, Karys, we were killing each other here. The distance stopped us tearing ourselves apart.”
She was silent for a while. “I still think about the day of the attacks. Standing by the broken windows, wondering if you were all right.”
“I’ll say I’m sorry again, if it will help.” He blew out a breath. “I felt the same. I felt like my life had been ripped away from me.”
Karys leaned closer to the screen. “You can come here. You should come here, before it’s too late, before the trickle becomes a flood.”
“What do you mean?”
“More people are arriving each week, Mace. The colony used to be a few hundred thousand, now it’s ballooned to twice that. Life’s not easy here…” She sighed again. “But it is a kind of freedom. Come and see.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. If I leave now, this city will fall apart. They look to me, Karys. Proka and the others, they look to me. I have to hold it together, and for Lonnic’s sake and Jarel’s and everyone else’s, I have to make things right.”
“You don’t. You could just leave tomorrow. You could walk away, Mace, walk away and let it burn.”
“You know me,” he whispered, “you know who I am. You know I can’t.”
“What I know is that I don’t want my children to grow up with a dead father.” She reached for the disconnect key. “Be safe, Mace.”
The screen went dark.
Darrah lost track of time as he stared at the inert monitor, turning Karys’s words over and over in his mind.
Stay or go. It seemed like such an easy choice.
Finally, there was a rattle as his door slid open and Proka came into his office, his expression grim.
“Boss, there’s been trouble at the Oralian camp.”
Darrah glanced at him. “So deal with it,”
“Bennek raised the alarm. He wants to speak to you, and you only.”
He sighed. “What kind of trouble?”
“Someone tried to firebomb it again. Couple of minor injuries, no fatalities.”
The chief inspector got out of his chair. “What does he think that I can do about it?” Proka began to speak, but Darrah cut him off with a wave of the hand. “No, no. Don’t say anything. I know the answer.”
The two men marched out to the landing pads and took the first fast flyer, out over the city limits and into the plainsland.
19
Kotan Pa’Dar heard his name called as he crossed the docking annex. He had developed a manner of walking, whenever his duties forced him to visit Derna, in which he kept his head down and made as little eye contact with the soldiers and officers there as possible. The last thing he expected was to be waylaid heading back to his shuttle.
But the voice put him off his stride; it could be only one man, someone he hadn’t expected to see again. He turned to find Skrain Dukat studying him, the gul gauging him with all the warmth he might have shown to something he had scraped off his boot. There was no sign of the man that had befriended him aboard the Kornaire all those years ago. That intense, inquisitive young soldier was gone and in his place was someone that embodied the very model of a Cardassian officer. Arrogant and disdainful, striding about the galaxy as if it were his property.
“Kotan Pa’Dar,” Dukat repeated. “You are still here.” He said it as if the fact amazed him.
“Gul Dukat,” he replied. “I wasn’t aware you had returned to Bajor.”
Dukat’s gaze took in Pa’Dar’s ochre-colored tunic and the administrator’s tabs running along the edges of the seams. He smirked, as if in response to some private joke. “It seems you’ve had a change of vocation since we last met.”
Irritation ticked at a nerve in Pa’Dar’s eye, but he said nothing, only nodding.
The officer came closer. “What happened to your promising career as a scientist?” He reached out and fingered the tabs. “These are the grades of an administrator, a politician.”
“I…I found a calling that better suited my skill set.” Pa’Dar’s skin darkened. He refused to allow Dukat to slight him over his difference in circumstances.
“Ah,” allowed Dukat, “and here I was, wondering if your family had finally pressured you into dropping your dalliance with the sciences, at long last.” He shook his head slightly. “They did so dislike the choices you made, didn’t they?” He smiled briefly. “Odd, though. I would have thought you would have returned to Cardassia. Certainly there your family would have made far more…interesting options open to you.”
“I have duties here.”
“On Derna?” Dukat asked lightly.
“On Bajor,” Pa’Dar said, his tone hardening. “I am assisting in the administration of the enclave in the Tozhat region.”
“A civilian, in such a role? I’m surprised Kell permitted that.”
Pa’Dar’s gaze dropped. “As you noted, my family does have some influence.”
Dukat laughed coldly. “And what have you achieved in Tozhat? Do the Bajorans there appreciate the softer hand of a civilian over a soldier?”
“I worked to show a compassionate aspect to the Cardassian-Bajoran alliance, if that is what you mean, yes,” Pa’Dar bristled. “Someone has to.”
“Alliance.” Dukat picked out the word and mocked it. “That term is an empty vessel, and you’re a fool if you think otherwise. The notion of such a thing is pointless.” He shook his head. “I saw you walking there and I wondered how much you had changed, Kotan. I’m beginning to think that you have, but not for the better.”
“I look at you and I think the same.” His reply was clipped.
When the gul spoke again, the air between them chilled. “Don’t make the mistake of getting too close to the aliens. They don’t need friends, Pa’Dar. They need masters, and when Bajor formally becomes a client world of the Cardassian Union, it will be our duty to take on that responsibility. For their good, as much as ours.”
“Only Cardassia knows what is best for Bajor, is that what you are saying?”
“Of course,” said Dukat, as if any other suggestion was idiotic. “It will only be by the Union’s benevolence that Bajor can advance. Otherwise, they will remain stagnant.” He cast a glance at the crescent of Bajor, huge in Derna’s sky. “The evidence is all too clear. A decade Cardassia has been here, and what has been done? The lethargy of these aliens is like a taint, infecting all who come to this world.” He shook his head. “But that time has passed.”
He’s talking ab
out an invasion. The insight hit Pa’Dar like a splash of icy water. “Dukat,” he said, the words bubbling up from inside him, coming from a place that he had tried to seal away, tried to deny. “I know what you’ve done to these people. I’ve seen the edges of it, I am not blind. The stranglehold Cardassia has placed around Bajor’s throat, the Tzenkethi and the threats—”
“Be very careful of what you say next,” the gul warned.
“Don’t say something you will regret…something that might force me to make an unfavorable choice. You are far from home, Kotan. Remember that.”
The cascade of accusation he was about to unleash stalled in his throat, and Pa’Dar fell silent for a long moment, a sudden awareness of how distant the protection of his family was from him. Finally, he summoned some courage to answer back to the other man. “You and I, Dukat, have nothing more to discuss. Perhaps once I thought I knew who you are, but I see now that all we have are viewpoints in stark opposition.”
Dukat’s voice dropped to a hush. “I am genuinely saddened to learn you feel that way, Pa’Dar. As a nod, then, to our former friendship, I will tell you this. Don’t place yourself in conflict with me. You won’t win.” He turned away. “Go back to Bajor, back to Tozhat, and smile your smiles to the natives. You’ll see how much coin that earns you when we take this world for ourselves.”
Pa’Dar tried to find a way to respond, but nothing came. He glanced around him and saw nothing but soldiers, men in black shining armor, moving on errands and toward missions he had no influence upon.
The police flyer settled to the ground, thrusters throwing out a wave of rust-colored dirt as the motors died. Darrah Mace stepped down from the hatch and caught a breath of the dusty air, the moisture draining instantly from his mouth. Out here, in the middle of the plains where B’hava’el beat down from a cloudless sky, the heat was a heavy blanket. Darrah tugged at his collar.
The Oralians coming out from the shanty made little trails of ruddy dust as they walked. The dull, unkempt earth beneath their feet was sun-bleached and eternally dry. Nothing had grown out here for years, not since the attacks; one of the plasma bolts dropped on Korto had gone wide and scored a huge black oval in the grasslands, killing every plant that thrived there. In the aftermath the ground had remained dead, as if it were cursed. No one had wanted it. No one but the Oralians, who had nowhere else to go.
Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Page 35