by Dayton Ward
Tom, reclining against the dais and watching the two scientists work, asked, “Did President Ishan suffer from this Orkett’s disease?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Crusher said, “but I don’t know for sure.”
Sitting on the stone floor next to the storage container, Daret held up another data rod. “Mosara was able to access a copy of your president’s medical records; not a difficult task, given your government’s odd practice of making such information available for public scrutiny. Based on his medical history, your president never suffered from the disease.”
Crusher indicated the stasis unit. “There’s something else. This person is much younger than President Ishan; at least a decade or more. Whoever he was, he was barely an adult when he died.”
“According to a copy of the laborer identification database we were able to obtain from a contact of mine on Cardassia Prime, Ishan Anjar was listed as a young male, twenty-two Bajoran years of age. That is approximately twenty-nine Earth years, and far younger than the person currently serving as your president.”
“It’s not enough that we have proof this is the real Ishan Anjar,” Crusher said, gesturing toward the stasis unit. “We need evidence as to the president’s real identity: something irrefutable.”
Daret said nothing, but Crusher noticed her friend was inspecting yet another data rod. Frowning, he reached for a reader device that had been included inside the storage container and inserted the rod into a receiving port.
“What is that?” Crusher asked.
His expression one of uncertainty, Daret replied, “Something I’ve not seen before: a visual transcript of an interrogation involving two Bajorans, on the same evening a bombing was carried out against a barracks building here in the Olanda camp. That attack was the precursor to the retaliatory strikes inflicted on the Bajoran camps, before the entire situation devolved and the Cardassians fled the planet.” As he spoke, Crusher noticed how his features seem to darken, and there was actual fear in his eyes.
“Ilona, what is it?”
Looking up from where he was staring at the still-inactive data reader, Daret’s voice was almost inaudible as he whispered, “I believe I was there.”
Thirty
Jevalan, Doltiri System—Earth Year 2369
It was with restrained fury that Gil Rakan Urkar watched the quartet of guards push the two Bajorans into the interrogation room. That anger was laced with disgust as the prisoners were forced to their knees and his nostrils were assailed with an odorous blend of dust and mud from the mines and sweat. His first impulse was simply to execute them and return to his quarters and the young female waiting for him there, but Urkar knew that his work here was only just beginning.
“Where did you find them?” he asked, glaring in turn at each of the men.
One of the guards, Gorr Cadek, indicated the younger of the Bajorans with the muzzle of his disruptor rifle. “This one was apprehended outside the perimeter. He was alone, but we found the bodies of two others inside the fence.” The guard moved the weapon to point at the older prisoner. “He was near the recycling facility. No work was scheduled there for tonight.”
“I should kill you both just for being out of your barracks after curfew,” Urkar said, moving for the first time to stand within arm’s reach of the prisoners. “The fact that you both were armed only makes my decision easier, and it seems likely that either or both of you were involved in the attack on the barracks. Still, I know you were not working alone.”
Reports from the blast site still were coming in, but early estimates indicated that no fewer than thirty Cardassians along with several Bajoran workers had been killed in the explosion that had decimated the barracks building, with dozens more injured. Almost a third of the Olanda labor camp’s military contingent either was dead or wounded. The camp’s commander, Gul Pavok, already had requested assistance from the Tabata and Pencala camps to supplement his sudden manpower shortage. As for any responsible parties, it was obvious to Urkar that the small yet committed and apparently well-organized resistance cell operating within the camp was behind the attack. Despite numerous searches and inspections and even the enlistment of spies within the Bajoran population, the group had been most effective at concealing their identities and activities. Lacking sufficient evidence to the contrary, Urkar was certain that the two Bajorans now kneeling before him were members of that faction.
Though they were not restrained, both men knelt with their hands behind their backs. The older Bajoran looked straight ahead, his eyes focused on a point behind Urkar, whereas his younger companion held himself ramrod straight and looked up at him, not with defiance or hatred or even confidence. Was it simple resignation to his fate? Urkar could not be certain.
Then, it occurred to him that he recognized the man.
“Ishan Anjar,” Urkar said, allowing himself a small, satisfied smile as realization dawned. “I knew it was only a matter of time before one of you did something to implicate yourself.” The man was one of several who had been identified as having possible involvement in resistance activities, at least according to the reports Urkar had reviewed. Until now, Ishan, like others immersed in such undertakings, had succeeded in concealing his ties to the insurrectionist movement. Having incriminated himself, all that remained was to find his associates. “Who else was involved in this attack?”
Neither man spoke a word, though the older one at least had the sense not to look at him in an insolent manner. The same could not be said for Ishan, whose eyes narrowed and jaw clenched as he stared at Urkar. Without warning, the Cardassian lashed out with his foot, planting the sole of his heavy boot onto the man’s chest. Ishan toppled backward from the force of the kick, grunting as he fell to the floor. His hands clutched his chest, grimacing in pain though he said nothing. Cadek stepped forward, grabbing the prisoner by his neck and pulling him to his feet. The guard kept one hand on the Bajoran and held him in place. Two of the other guards reached for the older prisoner, yanking him up as Urkar moved to stand mere centimters from Ishan’s face.
“You could not have carried out this attack on your own!” he hissed, his spittle striking the Bajoran’s cheek. When his prisoner flinched, the gil turned his attention to the other man. “And what of you? Have you nothing to say?”
To his surprise, the older Bajoran chose to respond.
“What reason do I have to cooperate with you, Cardassian?” For the first time, his expression darkened. “You’ve already decided we’re guilty. That’s how your justice system works, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Urkar countered. “A presumption of innocence is inefficient.” Stepping toward the Bajoran, he glowered at the prisoner. “Perhaps you are hoping you can anger me enough to just kill you, before you’re forced to betray your fellow resistance fighters.” He shook his head. “Rest assured, that is a false hope.”
Moving toward the small desk positioned before the interrogation room’s rear wall, Urkar regarded the prisoners, studying their faces and body language. Ishan was struggling to maintain his bearing—an obvious consequence of his youth and lack of experience—whereas his companion once again had composed himself. Indeed, he seemed to lack even a hint of fear with respect to his current predicament. Had he already consigned himself to whatever fate might await him? If so, he would prove all but worthless as a source of information. However, the other prisoner already was showing signs of breaking. Questioning him would be quick, if not entertaining.
Urkar looked to Cadek. “Where is Lagrar? It was his men who captured these two. His statement will be required for my report.” He had not seen his fellow gil since before the explosion. Lagrar had been the officer on watch for the evening, responsible for the guards on duty in the watchtowers and moving about the camp. He likely would have headed for the destroyed barracks building within moments of the blast.
“I do not know, sir. He was last seen running across the compound, reportedly in pursuit of saboteurs trying to make an escape.�
�� The guard gestured toward the younger Bajoran. “This one was captured near the area where Lagrar was heading.” Cadek’s report had a slight yet noticeable effect on the young prisoner. A flash of recognition seemed to cross Ishan’s eyes, and Urkar glared at him with renewed suspicion.
“What do you know of this?” he asked, stepping toward the man. His fingers closed around the prisoner’s throat and Urkar lifted Ishan off his feet. The man gasped in surprise, his expression for the first time displaying the first hints of fear.
“I know nothing!” Ishan said, forcing the words from his constricted throat and past his lips. His hands clasped Urkar’s forearm in a futile attempt to loosen the Cardassian’s grip, his eyes bulging and his face reddening. Cadek and another of the guards stepped closer, restraining Ishan’s arms even as Urkar held him in his unwavering grip. Despite the need to question both prisoners in order to discover the truth behind the bombing, his desire to kill them and be done with this frustrating exercise mounted with every passing moment. It would be so easy, he knew. So, too, did Ishan, whose struggling was continuing to increase as his breathing became more labored. He stared down at Urkar, waiting as though knowing his end was near.
Urkar dropped him, and Ishan collapsed in a heap on the floor, coughing and sputtering as one hand reached for his throat. As guards moved to once more pull him to his feet, the gil moved back to the desk.
“Prepare them for full interrogation,” he said, offering a dismissive wave in their direction. “Inform the physician that his services will likely be required.”
As Cadek reached for his arm, the older Bajoran took a step toward the desk, earning him a chorus of surprised grunts from all of the guards. Cadek raised his disruptor rifle and aimed its muzzle at the back of the prisoner’s head, but the man stopped after the single step, his hands held at his side and his gaze fixed on Urkar.
“Paxyirta kren otal jek.”
Uncertain as to what he had just heard, Urkar scowled in apprehension as he regarded the Bajoran. “What did you say?”
The prisoner drew himself up, a renewed confidence now present in his voice and demeanor as he repeated the phrase in native Cardassian. Ishan, still recovering from his treatment at Urkar’s hands, now stared at him with utter astonishment.
“What are you doing?” the younger man asked. His belief and growing dread appeared genuine, at least to Urkar. “Was that Cardassian? What did you just say? Are you a spy? A traitor?”
Ignoring the questions, Urkar kept his focus on the older prisoner. “What is your name, Bajoran?”
The man did not answer, instead glancing at Ishan before saying, “What about him? He does not know me.”
“Neither do I,” Urkar snapped, weary of the conversation. He had no intention of taking on faith that this prisoner had just given to him a personalized, confidential code identifying him to the camp’s guard contingent as an informer among the Bajoran labor population. Though he did not recognize the man, it was common practice for all of the gils and many of the guards to cultivate spies while not divulging the identities of those individuals even to each other. Urkar had a small cadre of such covert personnel, though their number was few and he tended to err on the side of caution with respect to their usefulness and length of servitude before such informers met all manner of tragic fates as a “consequence” of the hazardous work performed in the mines.
As for this potential spy, it was obvious he did not want to reveal his name while standing before his luckless companion. After a moment, he seemed to realize that nothing would come from delaying—except perhaps his untimely demise if he continued to irritate his captors.
“My name is Baras Rodirya. Contact Gul Pavok. He will explain everything. I can tell you exactly who was responsible for the attack and where you can find them.”
* * *
The first rays of the morning sun were beginning to chase away the darkness as a new day greeted Doctor Ilona Daret, but all it did was serve to cast new light on the scene of devastation dominating the compound. From where he stood in the courtyard outside the building that housed the camp commander and his staff, he could see guards and other Cardassians moving about the pile of rubble that was all that remained of the wounded barracks building’s front half. Smoke from small fires still rose from gaps in the wreckage, and the noxious odor of scorched metal, thermocrete, and whatever else had been caught in the blast filled the air. Ash covered everything in proximity to the ruined building, including several of the people poring over the site. Daret heard the low-pitched whines of scanning equipment as workers searched for survivors.
Gul Pavok, the officer charged with overseeing the Olanda camp’s operations, stood before the ruined structure, using it as a backdrop as he glowered at the group of Bajoran workers who had been assembled before him. The compound where the Cardassian contingent lived and worked was far too small to bring together all of the Bajorans in this manner, but Daret knew that such a gathering was not necessary. The demonstration Pavok was providing did not need to be seen by everyone; every member of the audience mustered here would waste no time communicating to others what they had been gathered to witness. Daret was familiar enough with Pavok to know that the commander was deriving no small amount of perverse pleasure from the stunned and horrified reactions his demonstration was garnering. It required all of Daret’s willpower not to avert his eyes from the ghastly display.
A young Bajoran male—an adult, to be sure, but only a few seasons beyond adolescence—had been tied to a rectangular metal frame, his extremities lashed to each of the corners. His face was all but unrecognizable thanks to the severe beating he had endured. Dried blood traced paths down his front, staining his tattered clothing. The Bajoran hung limp from the rack, life having mercifully fled and leaving him in whatever state might pass for peace.
“Behold the price of treachery,” Pavok said, addressing his conscripted audience via a public address system that carried his voice across the compound as well as throughout the rest of the labor camp. “We know there are those among you who seek to undermine our presence here. Though you may have enjoyed a few isolated victories, rest assured that your days are numbered, as this prisoner can attest.”
Daret heard murmurings of shock, sorrow, and anger emanating from the group of assembled Bajorans, and he wondered if any of them had known the luckless prisoner who somehow had crossed the camp commander. Had the man been part of the resistance movement that had been festering within the laborer population, growing seemingly ever more bold with each passing day? On the Bajoran homeworld, the crusade had propagated to the point where nearly a third of all Cardassians stationed either on Bajor itself or aboard Terok Nor, the space station orbiting the planet, were committed to fighting the uncounted resistance cells operating among the occupied population. Here on Jevalan, insurrectionist activities still were limited both in scope and the damage they were inflicting, but the rebels’ efforts seemed buoyed by the successes being recorded by their brothers and sisters on Bajor. Gul Pavok was concerned about the mounting unrest and even had contacted his superiors on Cardassia Prime to request additional troops and support to deal with the problem. An ongoing hunt for the troublemakers had provided only marginal results, and the commander always was seeking ways to undermine whatever morale they might be instilling within the different labor camps. That likely was the prime reason he had orchestrated the gruesome display now being presented to the small group of stunned Bajorans.
“Have I not shown benevolence?” Pavok asked, though Daret could tell by the commander’s tone that he was not expecting any answer to that question. The gul was enjoying this latest opportunity to remind the Bajoran workers that their fates were subject to his whim. “Have I not given you at least some comforts, and allowed you to retain a portion of your dignity, in the hopes that you will be content to make the best of your situation and serve Cardassia? Surely, you cannot argue that your life here is preferable to that endured by those assigned to camps on
other worlds, to say nothing of that ball of mud from which most of you sprang. And how am I repaid? Disobedience, rebellion, sabotage, and murder.” He paused, allowing his words to linger in the air before his audience. “Very well, then,” he continued after a moment, gesturing to the body of the dead Bajoran. “For the insolence exhibited by the few, punishment will be visited upon the many.”
He turned to one of the gils standing behind him, a ruthless soldier Daret recognized as Urkar, who oversaw one of the guard companies providing security for the camp. “Bring me the insurgents. All of them. We will string them up here, next to their collaborator, for all to see. As for anyone who might be harboring them? It’s time they learn that such action also brings cost. See to it.”
As Urkar moved off to carry out his orders and guards began ushering, directing, or herding away the group of assembled Bajorans, Daret moved toward the rack that still held the Bajoran’s body. Drawing closer, the doctor heard Pavok and Urkar conversing in low tones.
“Throw the corpse into the recycling center,” the commander was saying as Daret stepped up behind him.
Keeping his voice low, Daret said, “With respect, I do not believe that may be the wisest course. The Bajorans are already uneasy. As you explained to them, you have shown them an unprecedented degree of generosity, including allowing them to carry out funeral arrangements for their dead.”
Pavok said, “And for that kindness, I have a destroyed barracks and dozens of murdered or injured soldiers. The time for compassion is over, Doctor. We are overdue for a reminder about who is in charge of this facility.”
There was little doubt that the commander intended to make an example not only of those responsible for the attack, but also anyone who may have assisted them or who may have possessed knowledge of the plan. How many innocents would suffer as retribution was dispensed? Daret’s heart sank as he imagined what the next hours and days would bring for the camp’s Bajoran population. And what of those at the other camps? How far would Pavok take his reprisal efforts?