Darrah glanced over his shoulder to the west. The Cardassian enclave was visible at this distance, a large low construct of dark metals and thermoconcrete, extending ever closer to the outskirts of Korto. He hadn’t been inside the walls of the cordoned community, not since the changes that had come after First Minister Lale’s reelection. Kubus Oak’s aggressive lobbying had pushed through the laws that now made Cardassian-owned land de facto Cardassian sovereign territory, and no amount of demonstrations or civil disobedience courtesy of the Circle had stopped it from happening. Every enclave an embassy, he thought, every embassy a place for them to do whatever they want to.
And those laws had seen an end to the Oralian presence in the enclaves as well. The walled zones were designated for use by Cardassian military, trading and civilian concerns only; theological groups were not accommodated. Darrah walked toward the approaching figures and the ragged collection of old bubbletents and ramshackle buildings behind them. The Oralian Way lived on charity now, on handouts from the Bajoran church and the smallest subsistence grants from Cardassia Prime. He sighed. These people, they’re dying out by the ticks of the clock.
“Chief Inspector Darrah,” said the woman leading the greeting party. She rolled back her threadbare blue hood and gave him a nod. “Thank you for coming.”
Darrah returned the gesture. “Tima.” He pushed away the moment of disquiet he always felt at seeing a Bajoran dressed in the robes of an alien faith. “It’s been a while since we last spoke.” His eyes were drawn to her right ear; it was bare of any adornment.
“Three years,” she agreed. “At the great wake for the kai.”
A memory flashed in Darrah’s thoughts. Three years? Has it only been three? It seems like forever. He recalled Tima’s face on that day, when all of Korto became hushed in memorial for Kai Meressa’s passing, her sorrow bright and shining. The wall of silence that hung over the city, the views on the streetscreens of the kai’s funeral procession, moving in solemn lockstep down the Avenue of Lights in Ashalla.
Three years Meressa has been gone, and still no one has taken her place. But then again, Darrah thought of Vedek Arin and took some comfort that the irresolute priest from Kendra hadn’t ascended to that sacred high office. Bajor’s Vedek Assembly was still divided over the kai’s replacement, over the Oralians, over everything, and the schism in the clergy spilled over into the lives of ordinary Bajorans. It was difficult to seek truth and solace at temple when the priests within it had no consensus of their own.
“This way,” said Tima, leading Darrah and Proka back toward the grubby little settlement. Bennek was waiting for them at the edge, and at a respectful distance other Oralians watched from beneath their hoods, naked suspicion in their gazes.
The Cardassian bowed slightly. “Before we discuss this, I want to show you first what was done.” Bennek took them toward a hut built out of an old cargo pod. The wind changed, and Darrah smelled rotting vegetation and the tang of ashes.
“You’re limping,” said Proka, gesturing at the cleric’s leg, which he favored as they walked.
“It’s nothing,” Bennek replied. “I was burned when I ran to put out the flames. I’ll heal.”
“Should you be walking on it?” asked the constable.
“This is more important,” he replied, and pulled open the door of the pod.
A cloud of dirty white haze rolled out from the inside of the container, and Darrah covered his mouth with his hand at the stink of it. Inside he glimpsed mounds of blackened matter, some of it still weeping smoke where it smoldered. He stifled a cough. “What’s this?”
“This,” said Tima, “was all the food we had stockpiled from the donations we have been given. Surplus from the katterpod farms in the valley, loaves of mapa bread given to us by the monks from Korto. All destroyed.”
“They came out of the night, as they always do,” said Bennek wearily. “They threw crude firebombs, and they deliberately targeted the food stores.”
“Did you see anything?” asked Proka, holding up his tricorder to record any statements. “Can you describe them?”
“The same as every other time.” Tima turned bitter.
“Clad all in black, faces covered.” She spat and pointed at the distant enclave. “It’s the Cardassians!”
Bennek frowned at her outburst. “We don’t know that—”
“It is!” Tima yelled, her anger breaking out. “They want to starve us to death! They hate the Way!”
Darrah held up his hands to silence her. “Calm down. Throwing accusations around without any proof will do none of us any good.” He sighed. “One thing at a time. How are you going to feed your people?”
The cleric sagged, as if the weight of the question was too much for him. “I…do not know. I will find a way.” He sighed. “We have so many here now. Almost all of the pilgrim groups remaining on Bajor have come to this place, so that we have safety in our numbers.”
Darrah nodded. After the Oralians were evicted from the Cardassian enclaves, shantytowns like this one had sprung up all across the planet; but many of them had been suddenly abandoned, or fallen victim to mysterious fires. He studied Bennek and found himself wondering exactly how many followers of the Way were left.
“How are you going to keep us safe?” Tima demanded.
“Or do we have to take the law into our own hands?”
“Let’s not start down that road,” said Proka sharply.
“We’ll investigate this.”
“Like you did the last time, or the time before that?” she said bitterly. “Have you ever been able to find a culprit? Or is it that you don’t want to?”
“Tima, that’s enough!” Bennek broke in. “These are honorable men, and they’re doing the best they can.”
“But it’s not enough,” Darrah admitted. “She’s right, Bennek. No witnesses, no leads, no suspects. And with the unrest in the city, I can’t afford to leave men out here to guard you.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you guarantees, but these are dark times and people are angry, they’re frustrated.”
Proka nodded grimly. “They’re lashing out at anything and everything.”
“Everything?” Bennek leaned back, resting on his uninjured leg. “Why, then, does it seem that it’s only the children of Oralius who are being attacked?” He shook his head. “Have any temples of the Prophets been set alight? Have any priests of your faith been murdered, Chief Inspector? Can you tell me what I must do to stop it?” He gestured toward Tima. “Is she correct? Must we shed blood ourselves?”
Darrah gave him a hard look and responded with his own questions. “Is that what you want to do, Bennek? Have you been making plans to do those very things?”
The cleric jerked as if he had been struck. “Of course not! The Way is a religion of peace…” He faltered for a moment, as if remembering something. “Peace,” he repeated. “Violence is anathema to Oralius.”
“There are rumors that you think differently now,” said Darrah, earning him a sharp look from Proka. “I’ll tell you this, even if some think I’m tipping our hand to do it. On the streets, there’s talk that desperation is driving you toward a holy war. A religious coup, with Oralius unseating the Prophets here in Korto District.”
Shock paled the Cardassian’s gray face. “That is insanity! That we would strike at those who have given us succor when our own world turned us out…. The very idea sickens me!” He wobbled as he stepped forward. “Look around! Do you see the hungry men and women, the children and the lost ones, come to huddle together?”
Darrah found his eyes drawn to the hooded Oralians all around them, all silent and afraid.
“Can you see a holy army here?” cried Bennek. “We barely hold on to life, Darrah Mace! We have no strength to take it from others!” He sagged back, the outburst having drained him. The cleric’s injuries had clearly hurt him more than he had been willing to admit.
Darrah glanced at Proka, fighting off the despair that threatened to se
ttle on him. “Let’s go. There’s nothing else we can do here.”
Dukat paged through the padd, musing as his crew worked quietly at their bridge stations. The report displayed the current deployments and flight operations status for every Cardassian ship in the Bajor Sector, and it made for interesting reading. Getting the information out of Kell had been difficult, and now he had it in his hands, he saw why. The jagul had been remiss, allowing too many ships to be placed too far out from the primary objective, which was Bajor herself. A tighter noose is required, he told himself, making notes on redeployment orders. He halted, halfway through. Of course, whatever orders I give, Kell can countermand on a whim. It would be like him to do that, just to spite me. Dukat sighed. What games are being played at Central Command that allow that fool to remain at his post here? He knew the answer; like so much of Cardassia’s infrastructure, the military was rife with nepotism and partiality, and the Kell name held much sway. Ten years. Ten years he has been here and still the flow of commerce from Bajor is a trickle. Still people on the homeworld are going hungry. A hard edge of memory cut into him as he thought of Athra, and of the son he had never seen. Never again, he vowed. Never again—
“Gul?” Dal Tunol turned from her station. “Signal from the orbital picket. There’s a ship moving out of the authorized transit corridors, refusing to answer hails. I’m getting no read from its transponder.”
Dukat raised an eyebrow. “Some criminal attempting to circumvent the customs net,” he offered. “Can’t these Bajorans keep control of their own airspace?”
“There’s a Militia vessel in the area,” said his first officer.
“We can let them deal with it.”
He put down the padd. “No. Let’s show the locals how to do the job properly.” Dukat stood up. “Put us under power, Tunol. We’ll consider it a drill.” And I need a distraction to amuse me.
“Complying,” she replied.
The decks hummed slightly as the cruiser’s impulse engines came online, and on the main viewscreen Dukat saw the view shift as Bajor’s surface dropped away. “Tactical. What’s the target?”
“A bulk freighter,” came the reply from the gunnery station. “Configuration matches a Xepolite class six transport.”
Tunol snorted. “I thought all those ships had been withdrawn from service. Hardly a fitting challenge for a Galor-class cruiser.”
“No accurate sensor read on internal structure or life signs,” said the gunner. “They have a detection mask in place.”
Dukat watched the scanners and saw the energy distribution peaking. “That appears to be a power surge. Our friend here thinks he can run.”
Tunol placed her finger to a communicator bead in her ear. “Gul, the Bajorans are signaling. They want us to stand down from the pursuit.”
“I’m sure they do.” Dukat nodded at the gunner. “Put a shot across the Xepolite’s bow.” Over the keening of a disruptor blast, he turned to Tunol. “I suppose we should follow the letter of the law and warn them.”
She nodded and opened a channel. “Xepolite freighter, this is the Cardassian Union warship Vandir. Cut power and stand to, or the next shots won’t miss.”
Dukat smiled approvingly. “Very succinct, Dal.”
“Vessel is slowing,” said the gunnery officer, with a hint of disappointment.
“Target his engines,” continued the gul. “Burn them off.”
“Sir, he is complying,” began Tunol.
“That’s correct,” said Dukat, “but Xepolites are a changeable sort. Let’s make sure he doesn’t have second thoughts.”
On the screen, disruptor bolts ripped into the freighter’s warp pylons and cleanly severed the engine nacelles.
“I’m tired of drifting here in orbit while Kell ignores us.” Dukat dropped the padd on his chair, his concerns forgotten for the moment. “I’m going to lead the boarding party. You have the ship, Dal.”
They waited for the two-bell tram and climbed up to the top deck as it clattered through the streets of Korto. Jones did as Nechayev told her, taking the vacant seat at the front, while Nechayev placed herself farther down and to the right. She had a good view there; she could keep the rookie in sight and still observe the rest of the passengers without making it obvious. Not that there were a lot of them. At this time of day, the tram was only a third full, and mostly with the elderly going out to temple.
When the man tapped her on the arm, she clamped down on her unease like a vise. “Pardon me,” he said, “do you know if this route crosses the Edar Bridge?”
She shook her head. “I don’t usually ride the tram.”
He nodded. “It’s a better day to walk, don’t you think?”
The trigger phrase. Nechayev turned slightly so she could see him. “These are new shoes. I’d prefer to sit.”
The other man smirked. “Who is it who comes up with these codes?” He offered his hand. “I’m Jekko.”
She ignored it. “You were supposed to make contact with her.” She nodded at Jones, who threw her a confused look in return.
“No, I was supposed to make contact with you. She’s the analyst, yes? You’re the agent.”
“Perhaps she’s the agent, and she’s just good at pretending to be a civilian.”
Jekko’s smirk turned cynical. “Somehow I don’t think so.” He glanced around. “So. Where’s your starship, Starfleet?”
“Very far from here.” Nechayev glanced out the window, as if she were bored. “We’re here because Keeve Falor reached out through back channels to the Federation Council. He said you’d have something to show us.”
Jekko bristled at her tone. “Isn’t a covert military buildup of Cardassian troops on Bajor enough to stir your interest? It’s not just ships in orbit or the outpost on Derna. We have intelligence on stockpiles of weapons, combat vehicles, strategic matériel.”
“That’s your assertion?” said Nechayev. “We know about the starships. Ground forces, that’s a different matter. How exactly do you suggest that the Cardassians could move an invasion force onto Bajor without the general population becoming aware of it?” She shook her head. “Keeve’s claims need a lot of backing up, if Starfleet is going to take them seriously.”
The bridge of the freighter was as far from the clean, steely lines of the Vandir’s command deck as it was possible to be. The smell of stale food hung in the air along the cramped cylindrical bay, and the walls were a riot of bare cables where every inch of cosmetic paneling had been removed. The flight crew were on their knees, hands behind their heads, the four of them covered by a watchful gil with a phaser rifle. The captain—although the greasy little humanoid barely deserved such a title—stood, trembling slightly, with one of Dukat’s men holding a gun at his head.
The gul folded his arms. “I’m becoming bored,” he announced. “I thought you and your rusting scow might make an interesting diversion, but that’s waning.” He plucked at a bit of broken panel. “This ship is a mess. I’m disgusted by it.”
The Xepolite blinked, although his right eye was swelling shut; the injury had come from some small utterance the armed officer had taken exception to.
“Are you going to tell me why you broke from the spacelanes and tried to run for deep space, Hetman…?”
“Foroe,” husked the alien. “Uh, sir,” he added nervously.
“Well?”
“It was just a helm malfunction, like I told you,” he said thickly. “I was going to fix the problem—”
Dukat nodded and the officer with the gun smacked Foroe in the side of the head, staggering him. “You don’t seem to be listening to me, Hetman. I said I was getting bored. Bored with you, bored with this filthy ship, bored with hearing the same lies.” He stepped closer to the other man. “My men are searching all the decks, you do realize that? When they find whatever it is you are smuggling, you’ll be prosecuted not only for that crime but also for obstruction of justice. Under the weight of Cardassian law, that’s a very severe punishment.”
“We’re in Bajoran space, you can’t—”
Another nod, and Foroe was struck silent again. “Look around, Hetman. Do you really think this sector belongs to Bajor anymore?”
The Xepolite’s shoulders sank, and Dukat knew that it was almost over. In a moment, he will either beg for mercy or offer me a bribe.
“Look,” Foroe said in a low voice, “can’t we work out something here, captain to captain?”
Any reply Dukat was going to make was cut off by a chime from his comcuff. He tapped the bracelet. “Report.”
“Sir, this is Glinn Orloc. I’m in the secondary engineering spaces near the keel.”
Foroe failed to conceal the shock on his face, and Dukat smiled thinly. “What have you found, Glinn?”
“Sir, there’s a large concealed compartment, shielded with kelbonite. I have at least forty Bajorans of various ages down here.”
“Slaves?” Dukat said mildly.
“They’re refugees!” spat one of the bridge crew, and he was clubbed down for his outburst.
Dukat gave Foroe a measuring stare. “Your manifest says nothing about passengers, Hetman. That’s a very serious violation.”
Foroe’s voice took on a pleading tone. “They’re just civilians, that’s all. They can’t afford the exit permits to go offplanet. The security restrictions the Bajoran ministry have put in place are too strict.”
Dukat nodded. The limitation of unfettered movement by Bajorans had increased with Kubus Oak’s introduction of several “security acts,” creating a rise in incidents of people-smuggling. He studied the Xepolite; the hetman was doubtless earning a fine percentage in latinum for his part in this particular operation.
Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Page 36