by Dayton Ward
Eyeing the dead Bajoran and trying to contain his own revulsion at the sight, Daret said, “It is not my place to question your command decisions, and I do not do so now. However, my perspective with respect to the Bajorans is somewhat different than yours, as I am in closer proximity to them on a daily basis.”
“You coddle them,” Pavok countered. “I have been told how much compassion you display as you treat their illnesses and injuries.” Before Daret could respond, the gul paused, holding up a hand. “Forgive me, Doctor. That sounded more accusatory than I intended. I do not question your loyalty or your ethics as a physician.”
Daret allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Thank you. What I am trying to say is that the Bajorans already are emboldened by the actions of this resistance movement. They know you are going to seek out and punish those responsible for the attack. Indeed, they likely have accounted for that response as a cost of taking action. However, if you expand such reprisals to include those who took no part in the plot, you will only bolster their resolve.” He sighed as his gaze lingered on the wreckage of the barracks building. “They do outnumber us, after all.”
“Such matters are my concern,” Pavok replied, and Daret saw his expression harden as he, too, stared at the devastation. “However, I do appreciate your insights, Doctor.” Without looking, he gestured toward the dead Bajoran. “You may take possession of the body. Return it to the Bajorans.”
“Thank you,” Daret said, reaching into the pocket of his coat to retrieve his data padd. “I will see to the details.” Tapping on the padd’s display, he opened a new file for his records. “What was his name?”
Looking away from the wreckage, Pavok’s eyes narrowed. “Baras. His name was Baras Rodirya.”
Thirty-one
Jevalan, Doltiri System
Sitting on the floor of the makeshift temple with nearly three dozen isolinear data rods, data padds, and other records collected by Raal Mosara, Beverly Crusher held up one of the rods and shook her head.
“So, that’s it, then,” she said, eyeing the compact storage device and marveling at the simple yet staggering information it contained. “President Ishan’s real name is Baras Rodirya.”
“And Urkar?” asked Tom Riker from where he sat on an adjacent bench. “Rakan Urkar? I’ve heard that name. Recently. He’s a major player in the True Way.”
Perched on one of the improvised benches facing the dais, Daret regarded Tom with widening eyes. “The True Way? Are you sure?”
“As sure as you can be when you’re dealing with unsavory information merchants on worlds that operate all sorts of shady business deals outside Federation influence. Deneb, Arcturus, Delta Leonis, and so on. One of my contacts gave me a list of prominent True Way members who’ve gone dark in recent months, since before President Bacco’s assassination. We know what happened to a few of those—they were killed on Nydak II—but the others?” He shrugged. “No one knows.”
“I cannot believe this,” Daret said, holding his hands clasped before him and squeezing them so tightly that Crusher could see the slight tremors in the muscles beneath his skin. “I simply cannot fathom that I was so close to the truth, and yet never suspected anything.”
“You never saw the real Baras,” said Tom Riker from where he sat on an adjacent bench. “No doubt that was by design. Once the identity switch was made, they would have moved him to another area of the camp to protect his status as an informant.”
Crusher frowned. “But why bother with the identity switch at all? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“In a way, it does,” Tom replied. “The real Baras Rodirya was a spy, working for the camp commander. It’s possible that his name was known to resistance members as a potential threat. If it wasn’t, then it likely would be once Baras was released from interrogation, because only spies and collaborators tend to survive those sorts of situations. His Cardassian handler may have simply decided to err on the side of caution and cover his tracks by eliminating the real Ishan Anjar and giving his identity to Baras.”
Shrugging, though still not completely convinced, Crusher asked, “What about everyone at the camp who knew him?” Before Tom or Daret could answer, she realized she had overlooked the obvious. “The retaliatory strikes on the Bajoran camps following the barracks attack.”
“According to the interrogation transcript,” Daret said, holding up another of the data rods, “Baras supplied information to Gul Pavok that incriminated several dozen Bajorans as members of the resistance. Most of them were living in the targeted camps, so it’s possible the strikes were intended as much for retribution as they were to provide cover for Baras’s status as Pavok’s personal spy. In that regard, it seems those attacks were most effective.” Crusher saw his disgust. “I never had any reason to consider such a plot was under way. By the time they had completed their . . . interrogation . . . of the real Baras Rodirya, they already had taken care of the identity switch, including any records kept at the camp’s administration center. When I entered the final information into his file before making the preparations for his burial, all of the relevant data already was in place. I never suspected a thing.”
Shifting his position on the bench, Tom said, “I can see why he’d change his identity. If he did all of that, he’s a traitor to all other Bajorans. They’ve never been forgiving of anyone who collaborated with the Cardassians during the Occupation. What about the burial? Didn’t anyone raise an issue then?”
“Due to the severity of the injuries he sustained during his interrogation, his burial vessel was sealed. Baras Rodirya had no family or relatives among the labor population. So far as I know, no one who attended his burial ceremony ever mentioned anything untoward.” Daret paused, reaching up to wipe his face. “I had completely forgotten about him. By the time the revolt had escalated to the point that my people were evacuating the planet, there were far too many bodies to worry about a single individual with no familial ties. And now, after so many years? All of the names have long since become a blur, and that’s assuming I even had an opportunity to learn their names in the first place.”
Crusher was tempted to offer some kind of solace to her friend, but instead she remained silent. Ilona Daret, despite being a physician, still had participated in the oppression and indentured servitude of an entire world. She always had set him apart from other Cardassians she had encountered during her own Starfleet career. Even here, on a world whose sole purpose was to utilize Bajoran prisoners as slave labor for the enrichment of the Cardassian Union, Daret still had found a way to place his duties as a healer over whatever loyalty he might have to Cardassia Prime or its military. Crusher knew that her words would have little effect; whatever guilt Daret carried—deserved or otherwise—as a consequence of his service during the Occupation would stay with him for the remainder of his days.
“I can see the charade working here, on this planet, during the Occupation,” Tom said, rising from the bench. “But now? With Ishan . . . sorry . . . Baras being elevated first to the Bajoran government before his time on the Federation Council until he ultimately is named as the Federation’s interim president?” He scowled. “The only way his identity remains a secret is if he’s had some kind of help, behind the scenes. That had to be Velk.”
Crusher said, “According to the biography that’s been released in the wake of his appointment as president pro tem, Ishan’s listed as a survivor of the camps here, one of the few hundred or so who didn’t die in the final attacks the Cardassians launched prior to evacuating the planet.”
“What about the Cardassians?” Tom asked. “Obviously most of them survived, but what happened to them? In particular, what happened to the camp commander?”
“He evacuated the planet, along with most of the other officers,” Daret replied, “but not before overseeing one final strike on the Bajoran compound. I do not know what became of him after the Occupation ended, but Central Command has never taken a kind view of those who abandon their duties. While I
am sure some of his subordinates escaped punishment, Gul Pavok almost certainly did not.”
“What if Ishan . . . Baras . . . maintained contact with any of them?” Crusher asked. “Or maybe Velk was the one who handled that. It’s definitely worth a look.” She would have to apprise Jean-Luc about this possibility—along with all of the other explosive information now in their possession—as soon as possible. However, there were more pressing matters requiring attention. “Our top priority is getting all of this out of here. Any thoughts on that?”
“One of the civilian transports,” Daret said, “assuming your runabout is no longer an option.”
Tom said, “I’m guessing our friends took care of that, and even if they didn’t, it’s a sure bet they’re watching for that thing to show up on sensors, or they’ve got backup on another ship in orbit, or somewhere close by. Calling your runabout is a sure way to bring them and who knows what else down on our heads.” He nodded toward Daret. “He’s right. We need to find a way to sneak away.”
“There’s something else we should do,” Crusher said, indicating the collection of data rods and other materials. “Make copies of all of this. If we have to split up, we’ll have a better chance of getting the evidence to the Enterprise.”
“Good idea,” Tom said, moving to reach for one of the data readers included in the storage box. “A tricorder will hold all of this with no problem.”
Before Crusher could say anything more, the communicator Tom had given her chirped, and she retrieved the device from her jacket. “Blue One,” she said, continuing to use the call signs the group had instituted.
“This is Blue Three,” said the voice of Lieutenant Cruzen, her voice sounding small and distant thanks to a low hiss of static permeating the connection. “We’ve got something going on up here.” She and Rennan Konya had been maintaining a security watch on the surface, keeping a lookout for any signs of their pursuers. With their earlier dispatching of the two agents, Crusher knew it only was a matter of time before their companions came looking for them.
“What is it?” Crusher asked.
Cruzen asked, “You’re not hearing it? Some kind of alarm’s been triggered up here on the surface, and there’s been an announcement to clear the site. The report mentions some sort of gas leak, but I’m not picking up anything with my tricorder.”
Frowning, Crusher looked to Tom and Daret, both of whom were staring back at her with confused expressions, though she noted that Tom already had drawn a phaser from his jacket pocket.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Tom said.
Daret added, “Neither did I, but such alarms are not unusual. Our excavation efforts have taken us into areas of the mines where gas pockets have been encountered, necessitating evacuation of the underground sections.” He paused, glancing about the room. “However, those alarms are supposed to be audible down here, as well.”
“I knew it,” Tom said, gesturing with his phaser to their collection of evidence. “Come on. We need to get this stuff out of here right now.” To the communicator Crusher held, he said, “Blue Three, you and Blue Two know what to do. We’ll join up with you at the rally point as soon as possible.”
Upon their arrival at the Olanda camp, both Tom and Konya had decided on the need for a fallback position, someplace with limited, controlled avenues of approach that could be defended against anyone who might come looking for them. After studying a schematic of the underground tunnel system provided to them by Daret, the pair had decided on an area on one of the mine’s lower levels. Its location deep within the rock would hamper any attempts to locate them with tricorders or other sensors, and it was possible that the team might be able to draw their pursuers into a tactical disadvantage.
“Acknowledged, Blue Four,” Cruzen replied. “We’re shutting down this frequency. We’ll link up on the first alternate.”
With that, the connection ended, and Crusher returned the communicator to her jacket before turning to assist Daret in gathering the data rods and other materials. Tom, rather than pitching in, had taken up a position near the temple’s entrance.
As she worked, Crusher looked to Daret. “Ilona, you’re sure you know your way around down here?”
“Yes. There are several routes from here to the surface.”
“That’s good,” Tom said. “The last thing I want to do is give those bastards a chance to trap us. Still, with all the interference from the mineral deposits permeating the rock, we may have an advantage if they try to follow us through the tunnels.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Crusher said, “I’d just as soon deal with them above ground.” She recalled one of the few times she had conducted a clandestine mission that had taken her deep under the surface of the Cardassian-occupied world Celtris III. The operation, during which she, Jean-Luc, and Worf were tasked with investigating the existence of metagenic weapons in the hands of the Cardassian military, had required them to infiltrate the secret underground base located on that planet. Though she did not suffer from claustrophobia, eluding Cardassian soldiers while being cut off from all possible aid as the team maneuvered far below ground had only served to exacerbate an already tense situation. This was before the operation had gone horribly wrong, resulting in Jean-Luc’s capture. He eventually was released and returned to the Enterprise, but not before suffering extended physical and emotional torture at the hands of his Cardassian captors. Though she doubted the agents now following her and her companions would expend much time and energy in similar activities, Crusher knew without question that if found in the mine’s depths, they never again would see the light of day.
So that means it’s time to go. As she and Daret worked, and despite her best efforts, Crusher could not ignore the sudden feeling that the walls of the underground chamber now were closing in around her.
Thirty-two
Jevalan, Doltiri System—Earth Year 2369
Everything was being consumed by fire.
From where he crouched along a ridge overlooking the Olanda labor camp, Baras Rodirya watched the scene of destruction unfolding before him. With few exceptions, not a single building or other structure had escaped the wrath of the Cardassian ships strafing the compound and surrounding area. Clouds of smoke hung over the entire site, thick enough in some spots to obscure his view. The only thing that appeared to keep the vessels from utterly obliterating everything in their sights were the precious few acts of retaliation scattered around the camp. Bursts of weapons fire from disruptor rifles and pistols stolen from the Cardassians’ own armories pierced the night air, lancing upward in desperate attempts to sway the ships from their attack runs.
“They won’t be happy until they’ve killed everyone,” said Helva Dras from where she lay in the grass next to Baras. Her voice cracked under the strain of fury and sorrow as she, like Baras, watched the unchecked annihilation of the hovel they had for years called home.
On her opposite side, their mutual friend, Myrosi Ghalj, said, “Gul Pavok’s gone mad. There’s no reason for this level of violence.”
“Not from their perspective,” Baras countered. In the weeks that had passed since the attack on the Cardassian troop barracks, reprisals instituted by the camp commander had escalated far beyond simple retribution. While the Bajoran labor population at first had reeled under the constant sweeps and arrests conducted by Cardassian soldiers, it had not taken long for members of the camp’s burgeoning resistance movement to take up whatever arms they had been able to scrounge, steal, or fabricate and mount something resembling a defense. Though the resistance members were far outnumbered and outgunned by their Cardassian counterparts, they had on their side the knowledge that there was nowhere for them to go and nothing else for them to lose that had already not been taken from them.
This conviction had spread to the rest of the labor camp population, with first dozens and then hundreds of Bajorans rising up to revolt against their would-be masters. With members of the resistance providing the means and the
opportunity, strikes against Cardassian buildings and vehicles had been on the rise, to the point that Gul Pavok had been forced to institute curfews to keep the Bajorans in check. Mining and ore production quotas were suffering, despite the lies propagated by the camp commander as to the effectiveness of the growing rebellion. Now mining operations had all but ceased in the face of what fast was becoming an all-out war spreading from the Olanda camp to the other compounds and installations across the planet.
For a moment, Baras considered the gravity of what he had done by providing information on the saboteurs responsible for the barracks attack. In truth, he had reasoned that Gul Pavok would use that information in order to launch direct action against the guilty parties. While Baras had suspected there might be additional casualties and other collateral damage, he had not imagined the scope of the camp commander’s wrath. On the other hand, this disproportionate response on the Cardassians’ part was spurring the Bajoran laborers, finally, to take action against their masters. Yes, there would be many more deaths as a consequence of this uprising, but at least now his fellow Bajorans would die fighting for their freedom, rather than waiting to meet a far-less-noble end in the mines or at a guard’s whim. Surely, it was better this way? Perhaps the Cardassians would give second thought before considering future plans of conquest, and Bajorans would never again allow themselves to be enslaved.
History may even judge me a hero, one day.
“Before we escaped, I heard talk yesterday that the spoonheads might be pulling out,” said Helva, not taking her gaze from the horrific scene unfolding in the distance.