by Olivia Woods
All other things being equal, Iliana would still have preferred a visit to the Tiluvus Gallery, a small, nondescript building that was almost lost among the drab and oppressive warehouses that crowded the Munda’ar Sector, unless you knew to look for it. Privately funded and perpetually in debt, Tiluvus wallowed in obscurity despite boasting works from, in Iliana’s estimation, some of the most talented and overlooked artists of the last fifty years. Beautiful as this place was, she thought it unsubtle; too obvious in its intent to awe. The fact that it seemed to function as more mausoleum than museum only compounded her distaste. It promoted itself as a center of scientific and historical inquiry. To Iliana, it was merely a monument to extinction.
It was therefore with a sense of mounting unease that Iliana followed her parents up the grand steps of the building, joining the flow of polished uniforms and formal civilian attire that funneled through the towering main doors, discovering as she passed through them that everything was exactly as she feared it would be, only more so. From the first moment, the opulence of her surroundings and the self-indulgences of the guests assaulted her: The museum’s majestic main gallery-its high vaulted ceiling painted with the constellations of Cardassia’s southern hemisphere-was crowded with so many partygoers that the inlaid blue marble floor was almost invisible. And there, surrounded by the reconstructed skeletons of gigantic, long-dead animals, the upper echelons of Cardassian society mingled, sipping the finest kanar from flutes of exquisite crystal and sampling the delicacies of the Union off gold-press latinum trays that rested on evenly spaced pedestals throughout the hall. A live performance by a shellwind quintet, playing classical music at one end of the hall, veiled the reception in a fairly convincing illusion of civility, but Iliana knew better than to be taken in by the pretense. For many of those in attendance, these affairs were simply battlefields on which the combatants fought for personal prestige, or to strike a blow against a rival, or to advance a political agenda. It had all the makings of a grand opera.
No, she decided, that wasn’t quite right. It was more like a waltz, one in which the participants stepped with calculated precision across the crowded floor, sometimes moving deliberately in ways to provoke another dancer into a disastrous misstep.
Steeling herself, Iliana dutifully followed her parents as they navigated the gallery, waiting patiently whenever they paused so Tekeny could accept congratulations from someone. If Iliana knew the well-wisher, she properly offered a polite comment or two; if introductions were necessary, she would likewise endure the inevitable shallow compliments, her smile locked firmly in place.
Within minutes, she felt frayed enough to shed her skin.
“There they are,” she heard Tekeny say warily. Iliana followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be a number of high-ranking military officers gathered in a circle near the middle of the room, immersed in what sounded like a contentious debate.
“Dukat’s there, isn’t he?” her mother asked, smiling at a passerby.
“I’m afraid so,” Tekeny said, nodding to someone else.
“Wonderful,” Kaleen said through her teeth. “I trust you’ll remember what I told you.”
“I can handle Dukat, Kaleen.”
“I hope so.”
Iliana was about to ask her parents who Dukat was, but as they passed a long glass case containing the mummified remains of a pre-Hebitian warlord, Kaleen spied a small clutch of her associates from the judiciary gathered near a marble column at the edge of the gallery. Iliana took note of the subtle, knowing glances that passed between them and her mother, whereupon Kaleen whispered something in her father’s ear. Tekeny nodded and the two of them briefly touched palms before her mother turned to her. “Mind your father, Iliana,” she said. “See to it he doesn’t get himself into any trouble.”
“Just go, will you?” Tekeny said. “We’ll be fine.”
Never taking her eyes off Iliana, Kaleen squeezed her arm. “Try to enjoy yourself. And be watchful.”
Iliana nodded. “You too.”
Kaleen gazed at her a moment longer before she turned and moved off to perform her social duty. Following in her father’s footsteps, Iliana resigned herself to doing hers.
“…and we cannot forget what’s at stake,” said Gul Trepar, the sharp-featured commander of the Fourth Order, his taut, dry skin flaking at the ridges as if the skull beneath was trying to burst free. “Fueled by that perverse religion of theirs, the Bajorans are fostering nothing less than a culture of terrorism that has been allowed to endure far too long. Imagine if such indiscriminate hatred were to infect other asset worlds. It has to be contained now, quickly and with finality, before it spreads.” Trepar’s left eye twitched from time to time as he spoke-a side-effect, Iliana suspected, of suppressing the urge to scratch his face. She found it thoroughly ruined her appetite for the succulents that were attractively arranged on the tiered pedestal standing inside the circle of her father’s peers.
“I agree that there must be zero tolerance for violence,” drawled Gul Dukat, his speech slow and stretched, as if he thought it made the words more interesting. She had instantly understood her mother’s apparent disdain for the man; self-absorption radiated from him like an aura, making his oratory as difficult to stomach as Trepar’s face. “But I still believe we can best achieve our goals on Bajor by taking a more subtle approach-buying off more Bajorans who would be in a position to influence their people, rewarding those who are accepting of the annexation, offering demonstrations of Cardassian magnanimity. It’s all about perception.”
“My thoughts exactly,” asserted Gul Pirak, one of the evening’s honorees, a man whose soft, sagging features stood out from the more finely-chiseled faces around him. He had the look, Iliana thought, of a bureaucrat, not a soldier. “I salute your astuteness, Dukat. We’ve spent far too much time and energy trying to break Bajor’s spirit when we should be looking for ways to remold it in our image. We must alter the message, show the Bajorans that the annexation isn’t about exploiting them or subjugating them, but about Cardassia raising them up.”
“Oh, please,” muttered Trekal Darhe’el as the broad-shouldered gul threw back his head and consumed the last of his kanar. Darhe’el had heavy eyelids that added a strange menace to his gaze; he seemed to impale anyone he looked at. He was also drinking quite a bit more than anyone else in the circle, and he struck Iliana as surprisingly bitter for a celebrated hero of the Union.
The remark had evidently not escaped Pirak’s notice. “I’m sorry, Darhe’el, the evening’s lovely music drowned out your last comment. Would you care to repeat it?”
For a moment, Iliana thought Darhe’el wouldn’t take the bait, but then he turned his hateful gaze with deliberate slowness on Pirak. “If you really believe you can combat a virulent insurgency with propaganda about the Bajorans’ bright and glorious future as valued subjects of the Union, you’re an even bigger fool than I’d imagined. The Bajorans may be loathsome, superstitious vermin, but they aren’t stupid. They understand the true nature of our relationship all too well, I assure you. And the only way we’re going to maintain our hold on their planet in the long term is by being merciless. They must be made to see that they have just two choices: accept their fate, or die.”
“It’s been my experience,” Dukat said, “that violence works best when employed as a precision instrument, not a bludgeon.”
“Such an approach might benefit the current prefect of Bajor,” Trepar scoffed, “but it sets a dangerous precedent.”
So Dukat is the prefect of Bajor, Iliana thought. No wonder he seems so self-important.
To his credit, Dukat didn’t respond in kind to Trepar’s blatant antagonism. As far as Iliana could tell, that was Trepar’s primary reason for being there; he seemed to have something personal against Dukat, and was determined to provoke him, or at a minimum, to embarrass him.
Trepar pressed on and told the gathering, “I agree with our esteemed Gul Darhe’el, and I submit that any sign of hes
itation on our part, any show of mercy, would be seen as a lack of Cardassian resolve-weakness to be exploited. We should never underestimate the Bajorans’ fanaticism…or their capacity for viciousness. They’re too easily inflamed and emboldened by a sick religion that gives them the arrogance to believe gods are on their side.”
“Their religion is no longer a concern,” Dukat countered. “I have put severe restrictions on their freedom to practice it. And without their so-called Orbs, their faith has weakened.”
“Wasn’t the ship carrying one of those…artifacts lost in the vicinity of the plasma storms some years ago?” Trepar asked pointedly.
“The Kamal, yes,” Dukat admitted. “No trace of it has ever been found. We believe it was destroyed with all hands, along with the Orb it carried. But the other seven Orbs were captured long before that.”
From where she stood, Iliana noticed a man, a civilian with distinctly large dark eyes and prominent facial ridges, drawing closer to the circle…and clearly he was trying to do so without drawing too much attention to himself. It was obviously working; no one besides Iliana seemed to notice him.
“There have been rumors of a ninth Orb,” Legate Kell said casually. A stocky man with iron gray hair, Kell was the ranking officer present, and it seemed to Iliana that he was subtly encouraging the debate among his subordinates, as if by setting them against each other he could gauge their strengths and weaknesses. He was, Iliana thought, not unlike a keeper of riding hounds who occasionally tossed scraps of meat into their midst in order to see what lengths each beast would go to in order to feed, and which ones would go hungry.
“You may rest assured, we found them all,” Dukat insisted. “Locating and confiscating Bajoran religious artifacts has been one of my highest priorities, and my men have been most thorough. If there were indeed a ninth Orb, I’d have found it by now.”
“Are you certain?” Trepar asked with a sneer. “Perhaps your appetite for Bajoran women has affected your vision.”
Dukat regarded his opponent coldly for a moment before speaking over his shoulder. “Do you hear the way he speaks to me, Akellen?”
“What?” Another partygoer, standing behind Dukat and facing the opposite direction, turned at the mention of his name. Iliana recognized the newcomer’s distinctive insectile brown uniform as the one currently being worn by the forces assigned to defend the border that Cardassia shared with the Federation. He also bore an uncanny resemblance to Dukat himself. Perhaps that explained the atypical facial hair Akellen cultivated on both sides of his chin, which, along with the different uniform, would make it fairly easy to tell the two men apart at a glance. Apparently having a grand time, the brown-uniformed gul seemed positively jovial as he put an arm around Dukat’s shoulders. “Forgive me, Cousin, I was commiserating with the museum curator. What seems to be the matter?”
Dukat gestured with his glass. “Our colleague Trepar here has been casting aspersions upon my integrity.”
“Really? Skrain, I’m shocked.” Dukat’s cousin seemed genuinely amazed. “Who knew you had any integrity?”
The circle erupted into laughter-all except Trepar, who regarded Dukat with contempt as Akellen rejoined the curator and drifted away again.
Interesting, Iliana thought. Dukat deflects a slanderous public accusation by opening himself to good-natured ridicule. Shrewdly played.
“And you, Ghemor?” Kell said suddenly, addressing Tekeny. “How would you handle the Bajoran annexation?”
Her father looked down at his kanar as he considered the question. As the last one to arrive, Tekeny listened more than he spoke, taking in what was being said, and by whom, and usually keeping his own counsel unless asked a direct question. “I daresay I would begin by reconsidering the need for the continued occupation of Bajor at all.”
“What an interesting notion, Legate,” said the large-eyed civilian who was now gently shouldering his way into the circle, between Pirak and Dukat. “Please elaborate.”
Tekeny reacted as if the intrusion were entirely expected. “Gladly, Mister Entek. After all, we would not want your report to Enabran Tain to be anything less than complete, would we?” Ignoring the narrowing of Entek’s eyes, her father continued. “I simply think it would serve us well to examine the need to maintain a planetary annexation when the gains clearly do not exceed the costs.”
Darhe’el chuckled mirthlessly as he reached for another bottle of kanar on the serving pedestal, but said nothing as he refilled his flute.
“With respect, Legate,” Dukat said to Tekeny, “that is a shortsighted view. A planet’s resources take time to deplete, after all, especially on a world as bountiful as Bajor. To ignore the long-term benefits-“
“We have had control of Bajor now for over thirty years, extracting its uridium and other resources virtually nonstop,” her father said. “We have never gained the acceptance of the native population, and all our attempts to beat it into submission have failed. Public support here at home for our continued involvement with Bajor is in decline, and some have even argued that, rather than being a force for stability, the occupation is actually feeding the insurgency. In my view the price of holding the planet far exceeds any benefit. The cost in Cardassian lives alone should give pause to anyone in this room. Factor in Bajoran lives-“
“The Bajorans,” Darhe’el interrupted firmly, casting an appreciative glance at his refilled glass, “don’t count. They’re the labor force, just another resource, nothing more, to be used and discarded as we see fit.” His eyes met Tekeny’s. “And I personally have exacted payment for every Cardassian life lost under my command, a hundred fold.”
“Your mathematics are most impressive, Darhe’el,” her father said. “I’m sure it served you quite well at Gallitep.”
Darhe’el glared at Tekeny. “Take care, Legate.”
“Or what?” Tekeny asked. “Will you repay me a hundred fold?”
Iliana dug her fingernails into her palms. She wanted desperately to drag Tekeny away from these men, for her father to stop joining in this ridiculous posturing. Instead, she kept her expression neutral, remaining silent and rooted where she was, standing behind her father and to his right, just outside the circle of swaggering guls and legates.
Kell, she saw, watched the confrontation unfold with interest. He’s enjoying this.
“Whatever you think you know about Gallitep is nothing compared to the reality,” Darhe’el told Tekeny.
“Of that I have no doubt whatsoever,” her father replied.
“Gallitep,” Darhe’el continued, gathering heat as he spoke, “was a shining example of how Bajor should be handled: productive, efficient, and unforgiving. Those qualities were precisely the reason its mines there were so thoroughly emptied. And if my personnel had not subsequently been halved…and if I had been able to finish what I started in exterminating the workforce and razing the camp to the ground, the terrorists who overran the facility would never have succeeded, and forty-seven Cardassian soldiers would still be alive. But you…you and Dukat and this…goodwill ambassador here,” he went on, gesturing at Pirak with his glass, “you seem to think there’s some kind of compromise to be made, that the rabble on Bajor can be allowed to go unpunished for challenging Cardassia’s manifest destiny. You may have forgotten the lessons we both learned at Kiessa, Legate, but I have not. And while you have not set foot on Bajor in twenty-five years, I have served there that entire time-too long to see our leaders toss aside the world I have spent my life taming.”
Kell finally decided to intercede, cutting off whatever Tekeny was about to say. “And that is precisely why we are all here today, Darhe’el: to honor your long years of service to the Union, to welcome you back to Cardassia, and to wish Pirak here good fortune on his assignment to Bajor.” The legate raised his glass. “To the sons of Cardassia, those who return home victorious, and those who go abroad seeking victory.”
Most of the gathered officers followed Kell’s lead and raised their flutes in kind,
but Darhe’el was already setting down his unfinished kanar. “If you will all excuse me, I see nothing here worth celebrating.” Without further comment Darhe’el turned away, the crowd of party goers before him dividing as he marched to the exit. Trepar followed in his wake, calling after him, but Darhe’el refused to slow down.
“Good riddance, I say,” Pirak muttered, prompting a stern glance from Kell.
“And yet, he has a point,” Dukat said, watching Tekeny intently. “The lessons of the past should not be brushed aside so easily. For some of us, the famine and poverty that once imperiled our world before we annexed Bajor is still a livid scar. We have invested too many years and too much blood in Bajor simply to abandon it.”
“I have not forgotten those difficult times, Dukat,” Tekeny countered. “But I will not use them to justify policies that no longer serve our people’s best interests.”
“A strong and prosperous Cardassia is in our people’s best interest,” answered Dukat, as if daring Tekeny to contradict him.
“And by your estimation, with how much more blood should we be willing to pay for that prosperity?” Tekeny asked.
Dukat opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to reconsider his answer. “I think perhaps we are not really so far apart, Legate,” he said at length. “Both of us want an end to wasteful death and destruction, after all. But as operational commander of the annexation, I do have a rather unique understanding of the Bajoran people, and I daresay that my singular perspective on what is happening in the B’hava’el system ought to carry some weight in the deliberations of Central Command. It’s for precisely this reason that I have submitted recommendations for several targeted changes to our foreign policy, particularly as it pertains to Bajor.”
“I’m aware of your recommendations, Gul. They will receive due consideration at our next joint strategy session with the Detapa Council.”