Panic built in his chest, a heavy knot of it like a vise being slowly tightened more and more until his ribs would crack. “What if he is not here?” Bennek asked the question aloud, and it echoed down the corridors. “Oralius save me, but what if he is not here?”
The cleric had gambled it all on this one thing, on the single hope that he would find the man he needed in the Naghai Keep. If he was wrong, then his failure would be total. “Am I the last?” he asked the air. “Am I the last one to walk the Way?”
He turned a corner and his pulse raced. He knew this place: the quarters that the priests of the Celestial Temple had taken after the destruction of the monastery at Kendra. If he was here, it would be in one of these rooms.
He crossed up and down the corridor, finally halting outside a door. “Gar! Gar!” It was hard to speak without gasping. “Are you in there? For Fate’s sake, open the door!”
When the latch released, he threw himself at the door and fell inside. The vedek was there, watching him with cool, wary eyes. Words spilled out of Bennek’s mouth, babbling gratitude to find his fellow cleric still here, still alive. Gar seemed to find his questions and his appearance here strangely at odds. It was almost as if the Bajoran wasn’t aware of the madness enveloping his world. The vedek gave him water and, finally, the panic began to subside. It had been in him so long that the Oralian had almost forgotten what the absence of it felt like.
Gar eyed him. “Why are you here? You must know the keep won’t offer you any sanctuary.”
Bennek almost cried out in shock. “You would turn me out?”
“I mean that this place won’t protect you.”
The reality of those words hit him like hammers. The skimmers—they had been so close behind. The soldiers—even now they were likely tracing his steps through the gardens, into the keep, toward the central tower…They would find him. It was inevitable. That made this choice all the more important.
Gar seemed to sense the understanding within the other cleric and spoke with gentle care, encouraging him to remember his faith, to take strength from it. Bennek wanted to, so very badly he wanted to, but he saw his beloved Tima’s face in his mind’s eye, and thought of the dead in the streets. He was afraid he would break down and weep like a child.
The skimmers were outside. He could hear the noise of their engines. Bennek looked up and asked for help. “Can you hide me? Please?”
When Gar shook his head, he felt as if darkness had swallowed him whole. Denied? He wants to let me die? Panic returned, swamping him in its embrace. For one moment he longed for the numb nothingness he had felt after learning of Tima’s death. And there, in her memory, he found something close to strength.
“I’m sure even Oralius knows that no man can be strong every day,” said the Bajoran.
“But now I have to be,” Bennek told him, and drew out the contents of the bag he carried. A tiny gasp of sadness escaped him when he saw that the recitation mask he held was damaged, but he pressed on, reaching in again to reveal the nested tube of precious brangwa-hide scrolls. He tried and failed to keep his hands from trembling. A choice was made, and words formed on his lips. I am going to die. He knew it as clearly as he knew the sun would set and rise again. Just as Hadlo did, just as Tima and all my brothers and sisters. But Oralius will survive. She must. “You cannot hide me, I was wrong to ask it of you. I will leave this place, but in the name of our twin faiths, I ask you to do this for me, Osen. Conceal them. Hide the mask and the scrolls from the soldiers and promise me you will never reveal their location as long as you live, not until the soul of Cardassia grows strong again, not until the Voice of Oralius is ready to be heard once more. Tell me you will do this. Swear it!”
The Bajoran looked down at the burden Bennek placed in his hands. Outside, he could hear the approach of Cardassian boots across the wooden floors of the keep. Bennek felt tears blurring his vision. “In the name of your Prophets, swear it!”
And then Gar Osen did something odd. He smiled. Not in the warm manner of a friend greeting another friend, or the comradeship of distaff cousins, but in the cold way a victor would take pleasure from the groveling surrender of an enemy.
The door to the chamber shattered under a heavy boot and banged open. Bennek reeled back into the room and fell against a chair. His eyes darted around, seeking another exit, but there was only a barred window and they were eight stories high.
A glinn and a pair of low-ranked garresh entered. The enlisted troopers were bored and annoyed with the detail they had drawn, but the glinn looked confused. He was waving a combat tricorder about and frowning.
“Is there a problem, Glinn?” asked Gar, without even a hint of fear.
“We’re tasked to recover all Oralian dissidents for processing,” said the officer. He pointed at Bennek. “This is one of them. But my readings are wrong.”
“How so?” Gar made it sound like this was some parlor puzzle game. Bennek was frozen at his side, too afraid to speak or to move. The two garresh had their guns aimed squarely at his chest.
The glinn pointed the tricorder at the Bajoran. “I’m getting five Cardassian biosigns in this room, not four.” The young officer blinked. “You’re not—”
“Lubak Five. Tul One. Karda Nine.” Gar said the words with a flat, slightly irritated sigh, moving the mask and the scrolls to his right hand. “Authenticate.”
The officer was so surprised to hear a Cardassian code issue from the mouth of the cleric that he input the string into his tricorder without really thinking about it. He read something off the screen and his gray skin whitened. “Forgive me, Agent,” he began. “We were not aware that the Order was operating in this zone.”
Bennek finally regained control of himself, enough to turn and face the other man. “Agent?” he repeated.
He turned to meet the straight-edged push-dagger that had appeared in Gar’s left hand. The blade went right through the gap between his ventral ribs and into his heart muscle. Bennek attempted to speak, but all that emerged was a choking rattle. He fell to the floor, hard, first to his knees and then into an untidy heap. His breath came in wheezing, razor-edged gulps. “Osen…” He forced the word from his lips in bubbles of bloody foam.
The priest bent and spoke quietly, so only Bennek could hear him. “Osen? He’s dead, Bennek. Nothing is left of him. Do you remember the storm, Bennek? The storm?”
He nodded. It was painful.
“He died then. I’ve been him ever since.”
“Who…”
The priest smiled again. The man’s voice shifted slightly, the pitch rising. “Don’t you know me? I’m so upset.”
“Pasir!”
The agent smiled and showed him the mask and the scrolls; then, with a callous toss, he threw them into the fire pit. The ancient wood and brangwa hide crackled and popped as the flames bit into them. “Oralius is dead, Bennek. Like you.”
“No. No.” Each word was agony to speak. “Oralius…will live. She will…return!” He coughed up thick, coppery bile, the darkness clouding in around him. “One day.”
But the other man had walked away. “Glinn,” he heard the voice say, a voice that sounded exactly like Gar Osen’s, “dispose of that.”
When the men had gone, he made a face at the patch of dark blood on the wooden floor. He cleaned it with a hand towel, then threw that into the fire along with the ashen remains of the mask and the ridiculous scrolls. The burning animal hide had given the room a musty air, and he opened the window to let it clear.
With care, he recovered a slim black rod from the spine of an old book, which bent in two to reveal a microcommunicator device. He activated it and spoke a code phrase. In a few moments, it vibrated once to show that the connection was secure.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he began, “I know you have a lot to deal with at this juncture.”
“Make it quick,” said Ico.
First, he gave her the names of the glinn and the two troopers. They had become aware of his
deep-cover assignment, and at this stage there could be no possibility of compromise. Ico assured him the men would be dead before nightfall. Then, as he rubbed the pink, dull skin of his face, he told her about the tricorder. “I’m seeing a marked recession in my biometric masking. This will need to be addressed immediately. If it goes on too long, elements of my original physiology will start to reassert themselves.”
He heard her sigh. “That was an expected side effect. The swiftness of the xenoplasty we performed on you had its disadvantages. But it’s a minor problem, and it can be corrected. I’ll see to it.”
He thought about that night in the storm, when Pasir Letin became a ghost. The face he now owned was on Gar Osen as the flyer dove toward the lake, carrying the priest to a watery grave. He remembered the transporter beam snatching him away, depositing him in the operating theater, and Ico there, smiling at him. Promising him that all the pain would be worth it. Normally, the process of biometric alteration was lengthy and arduous, but they had accompished it in hours. He recalled one of the Obsidian Order clinicians telling him how his heart had stopped three times during the process, from the sheer agony of having his body remade. “How?” he asked. “How will you see to it?”
“I’ll arrange for you to come to us. We’ll spread the treatments over a longer period this time.” She paused. “Was that all?”
He was looking out the window again. “It’s really happening today, isn’t it?” He felt a twinge of excitement, like a child presented with an ascension gift. “After so long.”
“Indeed.” He detected the slightest hint of pride in her voice. “And we have you to thank for setting us on our way. We have begun tracking down the rest of the Orbs. In time we’ll have them all, alongside the gift you sent me from Kendra.”
“The information about the memory core, the Ferengi…”
“Those issues are being addressed at this moment. Don’t concern yourself over them.”
“And the next phase of my assignment?”
“All in good time.”
He switched off the device, placed it back in its place of concealment, and then returned to the business of being Gar Osen, vedek of the Temple of the Prophets.
Dukat advanced along the corridors of the Derna outpost, scowling at any man who got in his way, scowling at the walls and the low ceilings, at the rodent-warren of prefabricated tunnels. The facility had Danig Kell’s stamp on it—all brute force and bluntness, without a single measure of grace or intelligence. The jagul imagined himself in the mold of the Bajoran city-lords of history, watching from the high castle keep over the people he ruled; and the Derna moon was the highest castle of them all, a pale disk visible in Bajor’s sky in the weak morning light. Kell waited up there, impotent and disconnected from the rabble below, from the real potential of Bajor, waiting for the day when Cardassia Prime would name him Prefect, and governor of the planet.
Dukat found the symbolism of the Derna Base to be beneath him. It was not Cardassian enough. Skulking in the near-lifeless craters of a ball of rock? The Union deserved a more impressive seat of power, something that could stand aloof but be forever watching. Something that was Cardassian in its blood and bone. A new satellite, he considered, something stark and barbed, something that would let the Bajorans know their world had changed. He wanted the aliens to look up into their sky and see a bright new star, and know it was the eye of Cardassia.
The glinns at either side of the hatch snapped to attention, and Dukat dismissed the thought. The door slid open and he entered Jagul Kell’s chambers.
He stepped into the middle of an argument, the moment and tension of it still in the air, suspended only by his arrival. Kell turned an acidic glower from Rhan Ico where the woman sat in a wide chair, and trained it on Dukat. For her part, Ico seemed, as ever, to be entirely composed.
“Gul Dukat. You finally see fit to grace me with your presence.”
Dukat folded his arms. If I had but one dagger, which of them would I kill with it? He allowed himself to enjoy the fantasy of their murders for a brief interval. There was nearly equal loathing in him for the pair of them.
Kell took his silence for the insolence it was and banged his fist on his desk, making the padds on it jump. “You!” he spat. “Both of you! Does this rank mean nothing?” The jagul drummed his fingers on the status tabs of his armor. “Why am I the last to learn of events taking place beneath me? How dare you operate with autonomy! I am in command here, and I will grant you only the freedom that I deem suitable!”
Ico made herself more comfortable and maintained a bland neutrality. Kell took up a padd and threw it at Dukat, who caught it easily. The faces of the two Federation fugitives looked back at him from the screen. “Spies? Why was I not informed immediately that our operations here could have been compromised?”
“Time was quite short, and circumstances on Bajor became fluid,” ventured Ico. “Perhaps the jagul is not aware of the complexity of—”
“I am aware!” he barked. “Despite your best efforts, Ico, I am fully aware!” Kell pointed a finger at Dukat. “Perhaps I would be more forgiving of this lapse if you had not let these females escape alive, free to take all they know to the Federation Council.”
Ico made a derisive noise. “I will be the first to admit that this is a failure on the part of the gul, but we must think in terms of damage limitation. What can the Federation do?” She curled her lip. “They will wring their hands. They will have a debate. Then another and another, then shake their heads and do nothing, all the while nursing their guilt at doing so.” The woman leaned back in the chair. “It’s too late now. Bajor has been ours for years. What we are doing now is bringing that fact into the light. And by the end of the week, we will make it legal, as if it had always been so.”
“But this is not the whole scope of your failure, Dukat!” Kell’s color darkened. Dukat saw the look in his eyes. He would not back off. Kell was determined to claim blood from the other officer. “The wreckage on Ajir IX? This…this memory core?” Dukat glanced at Ico, knowing exactly where the jagul had gotten that fragment of information.
“Did you recover it?”
At last he spoke. “The ship carrying the device was destroyed. I gave the order myself.”
“That is not what I asked you!” Kell thundered. “Are you certain it was destroyed?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so?” Ico mused. “You do not believe that the Federation ship you encountered took it aboard?”
Dukat’s jaw hardened, and he made a mental note to commence a security purge of the Vandir’s crew the moment he returned to his ship. “I do not. We were driven off by superior numbers, but not before the Bajoran ship was destroyed.”
Kell was shaking his head. “As much as I wish I could excise you both, I cannot.” He placed his hands flat on the desk. “It is a matter of influence and power…” His gaze traced over Ico’s insipid smile to bear on Dukat. “And my power is over you, Gul.”
“All I have done was in service to the Cardassian Union,” Dukat answered.
“Liar! You are an ambitious renegade, interested only in your own aggrandizement, and I will personally assure that Central Command learns of the catalog of errors that occurred during your posting here!” He banged the table again. “I am to return to Cardassia Prime where I will accept, as is my due, an elevation to the rank of legate.” Kell showed his teeth. “Before I do, I give this order! The Vandir is hereby reassigned, and you will return to the fleet in disgrace. I will see you ruined, Dukat! Your father’s influence will count for nothing, and if there is any justice, your family will share in your ignominy as well!”
“You have no right…” Dukat began.
“Accept your punishment, Skrain,” Ico said airily. “Show that you are still a Cardassian, underneath the armor.”
He was surprised when Kell rounded on the woman. “You are no better!” he spat. “You have stirred up a hornet’s nest down there!” He stabbed a finger
at the floor, in the direction of Bajor. “Do you think I do not know the spoor of the Obsidian Order’s work? You are to blame for staging the attacks on the Bajoran temples and the stirring up of hate toward the Oralians!”
And more that we can only guess at, Dukat added silently. That was the Order’s way; if you could see one of their gambits, you could be certain there were ten more that you could not.
“The only difference between Dukat’s arrogance and yours is that you have kept your hands clean throughout it all.” Kell turned away from her, choking on his anger.
Ico showed the slightest glimmer of annoyance in those dark eyes. “Then I would say that difference is a most profound and important one, Jagul Kell.”
Dukat stepped back and considered them both: Kell, rocking with such coiled fury that he might at any moment suffer some sort of spontaneous coronary; and Ico, the icy hate and concealed disdain for all around her coming off in invisible waves. A dark chuckle caught in his throat, and then suddenly he was laughing at them.
“You dare to mock me?” Kell snarled.
“You mock yourselves!” Dukat retorted with venom.
“You are fools, both of you. Your vision narrowed to this pathetic game you play, sparring across Bajor as if it were some private arena for your sport?” He shook his head.
“In all of this, as this world falls into Cardassia’s grasp, what occupies you the most?” He snorted. “Not succor for our hungry masses, but which of you can use me to score points from the other.” He turned away. “You have no understanding of what Bajor represents. I knew it five years ago, a decade ago, and it is still true today.”
“Bajor belongs to Cardassia because of what I have done,” Ico snapped, her mask of calm cracking. “I have set this in motion.”
Dukat laughed again. “You have. Like a child putting a flame to tinder, without foresight to see the inferno that will grow from it.” He walked toward the door. “Your plans…your schemes will ultimately come to nothing.” He halted on the threshold. “And do you know why?”
Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Page 46