by S. D. Perry
“I didn’t,” Mobara said, and turned to Kira once more. “Do you think he could have been behind you?”
Kira shook her head. “No, I’m sure he wasn’t. He took off in another direction. Three soldiers came after me, the rest followed him.” She took a breath. “I think he was making for the ravine, so maybe he’ll come in by the western route.”
Shakaar nodded, but his expression was grave. The knots of tension in Kira’s stomach tightened as she realized that if Bestram had taken the western route, he would have beaten her here by a healthy margin. He’d either taken cover somewhere else, or—
Or he didn’t. Kira took another breath, tried to think of something she could say or do to sound encouraging, but nothing came to mind.
“So they found you,” Mobara said.
“Yes,” Kira said. “But what were we going to do? We’ll starve in here. We have to be able to get to the village for supplies—”
“We’ll do that when it becomes absolutely necessary,” Shakaar said firmly, “and after we’ve rigged a way to transmit false life signs, or some kind of a shielding device…”
“I’m working on one right now,” Mobara said. “It should be ready within a week. If you and Bestram had just waited to speak to us about this…” His tone was uncharacteristically scolding.
Kira said nothing, feeling mildly defensive, but mostly afraid for Bestram. She’d feel responsible if he didn’t come back, even if it was his idea to go out in the first place. But why, then, had she been able to go out by herself earlier this week, with no sign of a Cardassian anywhere? When she’d told Bestram about it, he’d been eager to sneak out past Shakaar, believing the enemy patrols had been redeployed elsewhere. But he was wrong. The Cardassians had found them anyway.
Gantt spoke up in a low voice. “We’ve gotten more bad news since you’ve been gone,” the stoic medic informed her. “The comm chatter says Li Nalas has been killed.” Stunned, Kira looked to Shakaar for confirmation.
“Is it true?” she asked him.
Shakaar’s voice was solemn. “It’s what they’re saying on the comm—that his entire outfit was wiped out three days ago, somewhere in the outback.”
This was the fifth report they’d gotten of a cell being taken out completely. The cells in Jalanda, Renday, and Elemspur were also said to be gone—not a single member left.
Shakaar continued. “There was a report…someone claims that Jaro Essa is confirming he heard it was a new Cardassian detection grid.”
“Is that what’s taking down the raiders?” Mobara wanted to know.
Again, Kira looked to Shakaar. She hadn’t heard anything about raiders. He looked as surprised as she did.
“The Kohn-Ma cell have lost five of their aircraft,” Mobara explained. “Five of their men. That’s more than half their cell.”
“When did you hear that?” Kira asked with some urgency. She had become friendly with one of the Kohn-Ma cell members…
“I heard it an hour ago, from Tahna Los,” Mobara said. “The rest of the Kohn-Ma are still in the city, and Tahna put in a call to me to see if we were still here.”
“I heard reports of other raiders being shot down, as well,” Shakaar said, his voice troubled. “But I didn’t hear that Jaro Essa said anything about it…. I thought it might be another of their propaganda plants…”
“We shouldn’t take any chances,” Gantt said.
Shakaar nodded. “We won’t be launching any of our own raiders anytime soon. At least, not before we know what happened with the Kohn-Ma’s ships,” Shakaar said.
“So what should we do?” Kira asked. It wasn’t enough for her to sit here and listen to all the frantic gossip coming from the comm. She wanted to act—to get outside and confirm what was happening.
“We’ll do nothing until we’ve gotten more information. First thing, we wait for Bestram. We give it the usual fifty-two hours before…” He trailed off.
“Before the search party?” Kira finished for him.
Shakaar shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “This time…I think this time will have to be different.”
Kira swallowed hard and met Mobara’s gaze, found fear there, too. She had the distinct sense that things were changing, big things.
“We can’t just stay in these caves forever,” Gantt pointed out. “If there’s a system monitoring Bajoran movement, we’ll all have to go back to the city, get fake papers—blend in, somehow…”
“Not me,” Kira said firmly. “I’ll stay here.”
“I’d rather stay here, too,” Mobara said. “I think I can figure out a way to temporarily mask our biosigns so that we can get from place to place, at least in the short term. With careful planning, we can still—”
“But how are we supposed to plan full-scale attacks with temporary masks?” Gantt argued. “If we’re being targeted at this location, we’ve got to leave.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to figure that out later,” Shakaar said. “For now, we gather information. We work on getting in touch with the rest of the cell, making sure everyone is all right.”
Kira swallowed. “What about the Kohn-Ma?” she asked.
Shakaar shrugged. “They can do what they want,” he said. “But if there are only four of them left, they might just feel as though it’s over for them.”
Kira felt her resolve harden. “No,” she said. “They won’t feel that way.” Kira didn’t know Tahna Los especially well, but she did know that he wouldn’t give up, even if he was the only one left in his cell. She knew it because it was how she felt about the Shakaar.
Quark was less than thrilled that he’d had to give up such a large quantity of gold-press latinum to the pompous Cardassian who ran this place. It was a lucky thing he’d had that emergency stash at the bottom of one of the crates Gart had unceremoniously unloaded when he’d marooned Quark. Buried under a quarter-ton of rotting vegetables, the latinum had been safely shielded from his nosy shipmates. He remembered the way the prefect’s eyes had widened when Quark had presented him with a full brick, despite his obvious revulsion to the smell coming from it. It pained Quark to leave it on the gul’s desk, but he took comfort in knowing that he’d made a sale.
Quark grinned, thinking of the possibilities. He’d left home a lowly freighter cook, driven from the beautiful swamps of Ferenginar by a ridiculous accusation that was, sadly, true. But he’d been listening, from the beginning, from his very first day boiling the morning snail juice for Gart’s idiot crew. Listening for that faint, come-hither breath of opportunity, seeking out the entrepreneurial brave—and now she had come panting after him like a two-strip dabo girl, and he had the lobes to take action.
He patted the vest pockets containing his remaining strips and slips, and settled down in a chair in his new quarters, his grin souring slightly. The Cardassian hadn’t gotten all of it, but the loss had hurt. And yet, what other recourse did he have? Where else could he possibly go? Dukat obviously didn’t want him here, but latinum bought welcome, he’d found. Even with Klingons, to some degree. It was too bad Dukat hadn’t wanted the perishables, but Quark already had an idea or two.
He’d known about the occupation, of course. No self-respecting businessman would travel the starry seas without knowing who had the power where. In the B’hava’el system, the Cardassians carried the big stick. They’d run over some backward agri planet to “borrow” most of their resources, to boost a sagging economy at home—not a bad business plan, considering the payoff, though not so hot for the Bajorans. He’d seen plenty of Cardassians, but until his little tour of his new home this morning, he’d never seen a Bajoran before, not up close. In some of those pale faces he’d read crazed desperation, barely concealed; in others, utter, total defeat.
He’d been sent by a gaunt-faced “merchant” to his newly assigned lodgings, to find not much at the far end of a bleak, curving corridor—a bunk, a table, basic replicator, outdated computer console—but it was comfortable enough for someone who�
��d just been ejected from a tramp freighter. Quark was in no position to complain—he hadn’t expected Risa.
He quickly set about contacting his family on Ferenginar to inform them that he was still alive, but of course his fool-headed mother was apparently too busy with some trivial female pursuit to answer a transmission from her beloved eldest son. He left her a message, and then one for his idiot brother Rom, and then he waited. There wasn’t much he could do now, not until he’d arranged for his funds to be transferred. He didn’t have a padd; he had virtually no assets besides his few crates of delectable odds and ends—milcake mix, sargam filets, caviar, pickled plomeek—and his brilliant business acumen. Which was awesome, of course, but it didn’t pay the bills, not yet. There were his personal effects—at least Gart had tossed out Quark’s bag along with the refrigerated, “poisoned” containers—but nothing he could consider much of an asset. At least not among Cardassians.
Except the disruptor, maybe. Quark looked over at his bag, considering. You never knew when you might need to defend yourself. Of course, on a place like this, a single disruptor pistol was brittle reassurance—especially since he had never actually fired the thing. In any case, he couldn’t imagine a need for it. He had been blessed with the gift of gab.
The little console in front of him chimed to indicate that one of his messages was being returned, and Quark fumbled around a bit with the alien keyboard before he managed to access the image of his mother, her wizened face showing deep concern. Quark was disgusted to see that Ishka was wearing some piece of fabric swathed around her neck.
“Moogie!” he cried out, embarrassed. “Take that thing off!”
His mother looked down, and then plucked at the scarf. “Sorry, son. I was just trying it on. I forgot it was even there.”
“Ugh.” There was nothing more terrible than seeing your own mother in clothing. It wasn’t so bad when other women did it—it was suggestive, of course, but suggestive wasn’t necessarily horrifying. Quark remembered when Gera had put on his jacket, once, after he’d taken it off—a bold gesture, one that should have been upsetting, but she’d looked oddly cute in it…He promptly buried the thought. The sub-nagus’s tart of a sister was why he’d had to leave home in the first place.
Ishka got right to business. “Quark, what has gotten into you? A Cardassian station! Haven’t I told you about those people? They have no interest in profit at all—they’re almost as bad as the Klingons, but with less scruple! All they want to do is plunder, and then plunder some more. No head for business!”
“That’s enough!” Quark shouted. His mother had such nerve, trying to tell him—the eldest male!—what to do. “All I need to hear from you is that you’ve made sure Rom has transferred all my accounts over to the Bank of Bolias.”
“Son, I’m not so sure your brother can handle your request. Maybe it would be better if I just—”
“Rom has to do it,” Quark said firmly. Of course his mother knew that Rom was an idiot, as stupid as any Klingon when it came to matters of money, but there was no one else. Cousin Gaila would have skimmed, and there were no other close male relatives to whom he could turn.
“For Exchequer’s sake, Quark, it’s a simple request. I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but if I can just put in the call to the bank for you—”
“Put in the call?” Quark said, a little sick at the thought of it. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
His mother pursed her lips beneath the hook of her nose. “Of course I am,” she finally said. “I’ll contact your brother right away. And don’t worry, I’ll see to it that he doesn’t miss anything.”
“Good,” Quark said. “I’ve got big plans for this station. I’m going to be rich in no time.”
His mother continued to look fretful. “But…son…Cardassians? There’s a war going on there, isn’t there?”
“Not exactly,” Quark told her. “But even if there was, don’t forget the Thirty-fourth Rule of Acquisition.” War is good for business. That’d shut her up.
“Don’t forget the Thirty-fifth Rule, either,” Ishka reminded him. “‘Peace is good for business.’ Couldn’t you come back to peaceful Ferenginar, carry out your plans close to home?”
“Moogie, I’ve got cases and cases of unreplicated food, and I’m on a station full of starving Bajorans.”
“Quark, don’t get mixed up in the local politics! Aligning yourself with the Bajorans—”
“Who said anything about alignment? It’s supply and demand. You should see some of these people, Moogie. They’re ugly enough as it is—tall, straight teeth—”
“And what makes you think they have any money?”
“Some of them do. They’re bound to! They have vendors on this station, and I’ve seen Bajorans patronizing them. But you can’t eat money, can you? From what I’ve heard, there are food shortages on their planet, and they don’t seem to have a pair of decent shoes between a dozen of them, let alone a replicator. If they have the money, they’ll pay. Believe me, Moogie.”
“The Cardassians won’t stand for it. You’ll be killed.”
“The Cardassians don’t have to know,” he said, lowering his voice from force of habit, though he’d already checked and double-checked the channel’s security. The Cardassians were good, but not that good. “Besides, I’ve got an idea for a legitimate venture. You wouldn’t believe what passes for leisure here. These soldiers—they’ve got nowhere to unwind! I’m going to change that, though.”
His mother frowned, her eyes moist. “So, there’s no way I can convince you to come home?”
Quark shook his head firmly. “I figure it’ll be at least another decade before it’s safe to show my face again. The sub-nagus isn’t likely to have forgotten me.”
“Maybe if you’d just married his sister,” Ishka said sadly.
“She was engaged,” Quark reminded her. “Anyway, I’ll never get married. I’m not like Rom.”
There was silence for a moment as Quark read his mother’s disappointment—because of no more grandchildren, or because of Rom in general, he couldn’t say.
“How is Rom, by the way?” he asked guiltily. “And that little baby of his…what was his name? Gob?”
“Nog,” his mother said sharply. “He’s just fine, and he’s hardly a baby, Quark. He’s a lovely little seven-year-old. A brilliant boy.”
“Takes after his mother, does he?” Quark muttered.
Ishka cleared her throat. “I’ll send the money your way,” she said. “I mean, Rom will.”
“Thank you, Moogie,” Quark said again, and signed off the transmission. He stared at the blank screen for a moment, allowing himself a moment of nostalgia for his home, back on beautiful green and wet Ferenginar, the air so moist and temperate, not like the arid heat on this station. At least his room had separate climate controls, though he couldn’t get them to even begin to mimic the humidity he craved. His sinuses were parched. He decided to go to bed. With any luck, his money would be available in the morning. Until then, he had nothing to do but maybe try to make some Bajoran contacts, and he wanted to be rested before he made his way back over to the Bajoran side of the station. Rested, and armed.
Kalisi didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when the flyer finally slowed, came to orbit of an unknown world. She had no idea where she was. Her knowledge of star charts was scanty at best. She’d never had any desire to study the geography of space, and had paid only brief attention to that part of her education, learning just enough to satisfy her requirement for graduation. She only knew that below her was a very small, very dark planet, distant from its minor sun.
The sharp-faced pilot did not address her, only tapped his comcuff. “Two to beam down,” he said aloud, and Kalisi felt the cool rush of the transporter beam. When the sensation passed, she found herself in a long, brightly lit hallway, the pilot ushering her toward a door at the end.
“This way, Doctor Reyar.” He did not sound unfriendly, exactly—in fact, ther
e was no detectable emotion in his tone whatever. There was no one around, but she knew they were being watched. She could feel it.
Obsidian Order, then.
The pilot led her down a set of curving steps and into a large vestibule that housed a great many computers, floor-to-ceiling units with dozens of screens on each row, lit up with flickering characters and intermittently changing live feeds. There were shots that Kalisi recognized as public gathering places on Cardassia Prime: the Hall of Records, the upper levels of the Assembly building, the grounds of the Ministry of Science. Other feeds depicted scenes that Kalisi surmised were from other worlds, so alien was their appearance. She had scarcely blinked when she was greeted by a middle-aged Cardassian man whose features were as broad as the pilot’s were pinched. He stepped forward, ushering her into a small room off to one side. He closed the door behind them, leaving the pilot outside.
“Doctor Reyar,” he said. He flashed an unnervingly handsome smile. “Forgive me for bringing you here under such mysterious circumstances. Discretion was of the utmost importance. But no matter. We’ll have you to your required destination in no time at all. But first—if you don’t mind—I have a few questions for you.”
Kalisi’s initial reaction was anger, but she recognized the futility of it, and worked out a kind of smile. “Of course,” she said, choking slightly on the words.
The man gestured for her to sit. “We would have done this on the surface of Bajor, but you see, my duties do not permit me to leave this facility. Not without the sayso of my superiors.” He smiled again, and Kalisi could not suppress a shiver, for although the room was well-appointed, if small, it was cold here—colder even than on Bajor.
Kalisi sat, feeling an odd mix of indignity and fright as she waited for him to explain her kidnapping. Her father had ties to the Order, which should have insulated her from danger, but the isolation of this facility was anything but reassuring. Kalisi knew the sorts of tactics the Order employed to extract information from their interviewees. Her gaze darted nervously about the room. She didn’t see anything that resembled the fearsome interrogation equipment she had always imagined, but then, perhaps her imagination was lacking. Maybe such a device was something so thoroughly innocuous that it had already been administered to her, without her even noticing.