by S. D. Perry
The soldier continued to tramp back and forth, patrolling the region in a chaotic crisscross, as though trying to confirm his suspicions about something. It was possible that Odo had left some sign of his passing, that the soldier was interpreting as evidence of another person in the area. Without thinking much more on the subject, Odo decided to make his presence known. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, and if he simply presented himself as a traveler, perhaps the soldier would then go away and allow Odo to continue with his regeneration.
Odo twisted his body into his humanoid form and stepped out into a small clearing where the soldier would be likely to see him. The soldier did see him, an expression of surprise crossing his ridged face. He pulled his weapon clumsily from its holster.
“You there!” The soldier called out. “State your business! Do you have a permit to be in this region?”
“No,” Odo said. “I am merely traversing from one location to another.”
“Travel is strictly prohibited through this area, unless you have authorization from the prefect.” He stopped short after a moment, and holstered his weapon as he came closer. “Are you Odo’Ital, the shape-shifter?”
It was Odo’s turn to be startled. “Yes.”
“I have been instructed to bring you to the prefect,” the soldier told him. “Come along with me immediately.”
“But…I am traveling,” Odo said. “I don’t want to go with you.”
The soldier drew his phaser again. “It’s not for you to decide,” he said. He seemed angry, though Odo didn’t know why.
Odo decided it wasn’t a good time to attempt to puzzle out the soldier’s motives. He was no longer feeling quite so confident that the Cardassian’s weapon would indeed be harmless to him. He decided he’d better change his form, though he wasn’t at first sure what he should become.
The Cardassian took a step back as Odo shrank, and then expanded, transforming himself into a bird. A great bird with a massive wingspan—a sinoraptor, like those he had seen with Jaxa. He spread his wings, and then uncertainly moved them, testing his abilities in this form. The structure of his tapered bones was too heavy, and he hollowed them, feeling his body lighten with the shift. The soldier looked astonished. Although he had purported to know of Odo’s shape-shifting abilities, apparently he had not expected to see the ability displayed.
Before Odo knew it, he was flying, his wings lifting him up over the treetops, over the head of the bemused and frightened Cardassian soldier, who seemed to have quite forgotten what his phaser was good for.
Natima shifted uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair of the waiting room, but it wasn’t only the chair that made her squirm. Being on the surface again had brought up memories. Not all of them were unpleasant—far from it—but she had been so much younger when she’d been here before, still full of idealism and conviction, the indulgences of youth. Being here made her feel quite old, and not a little depressed at the steady passage of time.
A male secretary in a glinn’s uniform finally nodded at her, and she rose from the stiff chair and walked to the exarch’s office without further ceremony. His office was as dark and dusty as the rest of the Tozhat settlement, a place that she remembered as being clean and well-lit, nothing like the shabbiness she saw around her now. As she knew from her research, Central Command refused to appropriate any monies toward the maintenance of the mostly abandoned Cardassian colonies.
“Exarch,” she said to the man who sat in the dim room at a broad wooden desk of Bajoran design. He looked fatter in person.
“You may call me Yoriv.” The man was polite, but not entirely friendly. He gestured toward a chair and she sat, doing her best to seem at ease.
“Certainly, Yoriv. I am here on behalf of Glinn Gaten Russol, someone who has assured me that you will be sympathetic to the requests he has asked me to put to you.”
“Miss Lang, I remind you that I feel some reluctance in discussing political matters with an information correspondent.”
“Please, Yoriv. I understand your reticence, but I only have a message to deliver. There is nothing that you must say.”
The smile he gave her was small and patronizing, as if she’d already wasted his time. “Well then, deliver it.”
“Russol understands that a council is to be held on Terok Nor in the coming months,” Natima said. “The civilian leaders here will have the opportunity to present their opinions regarding the status of the Bajoran venture. Russol wonders if you might be likely to voice an opinion in favor of withdrawal.”
“Withdrawal!” Skyl snorted, apparently forgetting that Natima had excused him from the necessity of reply. “Central Command would never be in favor of withdrawal, not now that the resistance is finally straggling to an end.”
Natima spoke slowly, respectfully. “Russol believes that perhaps you are the sort of person who might understand that the Cardassian economy has begun experiencing a downturn, and will likely continue to plummet if the return of Bajoran resources continue to slow, as it has lately begun to do. Russol has long felt that the needless deaths of our troops on this world has not been sufficiently justified by the short-term success of the annexation.” She took a breath, for she had just made a bold statement. She hoped that in doing so, she would convince Skyl that she was not trying to trick him, but it seemed to backfire.
“Do you honestly believe that I would discuss my intentions with a member of the Information Service?” he asked her, his tone even less friendly than before. “By trying to draw me into this conversation, it seems you might be attempting to coerce me into making a statement that would be looked upon very unfavorably by Central Command.”
“As I said before, Yoriv, there is no need for you to make a reply, if you don’t choose to. I am merely here as a messenger.”
“Fine,” Skyl replied. “But you might want to tell Russol that the next time he wants to send me a message, he would do best not to employ an information correspondent to deliver it.”
“I understand,” Natima said, and stood to leave, the meeting clearly over.
“Miss Lang,” he said, before she reached the door, and she turned to look at him. “As a correspondent…you must be aware that the average Cardassian citizen doesn’t regard the deaths of the soldiers here to be needless and tragic, despite the mere temporary nature of Bajoran benefits. Those soldiers are heroes, not martyrs.”
“Yes, I do know,” Natima replied. “But Russol thought that perhaps you felt differently—that, being on the surface, you would have firsthand knowledge regarding the violence, and the speed with which the resources here are being depleted.”
Skyl laughed. “The state of Bajor’s resources has been a matter of much speculation,” he agreed, “but their actual status is unimportant. What matters is the people’s perception of their necessity. If Central Command decides that Bajor’s resources are spent, then they will be. If they decide otherwise, then it will be as they say.”
Natima was speechless. Skyl’s mocking tone seemed to indicate that he agreed with her and with Russol, but he was clearly not going to say so. She nodded to him with an uncertain expression of feigned politeness, and left, wondering if she had learned anything of value.
Dukat had been intrigued by Mora’s extensive “notes” on Odo’Ital, although the proper format was lacking; the man was far from fluent in Cardassian. Still, Dukat had managed to skim over most of the high points in the past weeks, since his team had trailed Odo to a village in Dahkur. Odo measured as highly intelligent, but had received no formal education, had been taught only from institute files and by the Bajoran scientist. Not that Dukat doubted Mora’s loyalty—the Bajoran had assisted with the sensors and weapons that had effectively shut down the Bajoran insurgency—but it did make him doubt Yopal’s good sense. Why hadn’t she assigned a Cardassian scientist, even a team of them, once she’d realized Odo’s potential? What if they could clone him, create a race of shape-shifters, working for the Union? Regardless of his future applic
ations, someone should have been giving him a proper Cardassian education when he was still young enough for it to imprint.
Too late, of course, but Dukat was not a man to dwell on past mistakes. What mattered now was coaxing Odo to Terok Nor. Dukat knew he’d find inspiration for future plans once he actually met with the creature, but he hadn’t had time to follow up his initial plans, of late. There had been the yearly financial report to prepare, a problem with the processors that had caused them to miss their quota for more than a week—nothing to scoff at, when there was a growing push at home for the flow of metals and foods and building materials to increase, now that the rebels had quieted—and there was a girl, always a girl: a tender young beauty he’d rescued from the processing center, wise beyond her years, plucked straight off the transport from the surface.
Dukat had been busy. He’d twice tried to contact the glinn he’d tasked to monitor the shape-shifter’s movements in the past week, and twice been told that he was unavailable. He hadn’t focused on it overmuch, but he wondered at a man who would dare try the prefect’s patience.
A third day, a third attempt, and the garresh working communications couldn’t put him through fast enough. When the glinn finally showed his face on Dukat’s office screen, he did not look happy.
“Why have you not returned my calls?” Dukat asked.
The glinn tightened his jaw. “Sir, I regret to inform you that my men—that I have lost track of the shape-shifter.”
“How long ago?”
“Sir. We have been searching for its tracks without rest—”
“When?”
The glinn took a deep breath. He looked exhausted. “Four days, sir.”
“Did I not explain to you that he was to be closely monitored at all times?”
“And we did, sir. We have. It left the village in Dahkur, and we tried to follow it, but it approached one of my men. When he asked it to go with him, it—it turned into a bird and flew away. He was…startled, sir.”
Startled. Dukat said nothing, and the glinn was quick to fill the silence, his desperation lending him voice.
“How can we track a thing that becomes water, or a stone, or a snake? With all respect, sir, we don’t have the technology to keep it under surveillance.”
Dukat hovered between anger at the glinn—impertinence on top of incompetence—and a kind of weary resignation, that he should have the only sharp mind, it seemed, in all of Central Command.
“It chooses to be a man,” Dukat said, patient through gritted teeth. “It seeks out the company of other sentient beings. Go to the towns, ask questions. Cover the whole province, if you must. Someone will have seen something.”
The glinn nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.”
“And report back as soon as you’ve established his whereabouts. Do not approach him, or try to contain him in any way, do you understand? I will not indulge your ineptitude twice.”
He cut off the transmission, shook his head. If Odo were ever to come to Terok Nor, it would have to be of his own volition. For now, keeping track of him would have to do, if his soldiers could manage it without his direct supervision.
Dukat picked up the padd with his schedule for the day, turning his attention to other matters. Truly, it was a wonder he ever got anything done.
11
When she got the upgrade memo from the science ministry, it was all Kalisi could do not to scream. She read it three times, her blood pressure steadily spiking.
…and you will receive the newly calibrated RV7 models and have them installed before the end of the next quartile…
She read it again, then stood, agitated, pacing her small closet of an office. Only the year before, Cardassia Prime had gifted Doctor Moset’s facility with a brand-new computer system, state of the art—and backwards compatible with their outdated hardware. Since her arrival at the facility, Kalisi had spent countless hours elaborately reprogramming the system to get their aging equipment online and networked. And now the science ministry had actually come through with new hardware for the lab. Hardware that was, of course, incompatible with last year’s computer system.
Kalisi couldn’t stand it. She went to find Crell.
It was midweek and late, so she headed for pathology, fuming all the way. She exchanged nods with a few other workers, but no pleasantries; they all knew what she was to Moset, and his blatant favoritism had distanced her from anyone she might have looked to for friendship.
He was happy to see her, in his distracted and quirky way. They hadn’t been lovers for long enough to breed too much familiarity, and he seemed to enjoy listening to her complain. She ranted about the ministry for a spell, as he nodded appropriately, shaking his head in shared frustration. She didn’t expect him to offer any solution, and wasn’t disappointed. He had been distant lately, in a way she’d come to recognize as a precursor to some new twist in his research.
“Well, it won’t be for much longer,” he said finally, smiling his thin smile. “This might be among the last upgrades we’ll have to suffer.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an educated woman,” Crell said. “You can see that the resources here on Bajor are dwindling.”
“Yes, but the projection for dropping below quota is still decades away.”
Moset leaned against the metal table behind him, cocking one eyeridge in a melodramatically cryptic expression. “That’s just what they want you to think.”
Her irritation was no pretense. “What do you mean?”
“That’s propaganda, newscasts aimed at home. From what I hear, Cardassia will pull out of here less than a generation from now. Possibly within the next five years.” He smiled with faint distraction. “I’m hoping for sooner, rather than later, of course.”
Kalisi was surprised. She’d heard rumors, but hadn’t believed them. Crell was well-respected, though, and had earned a number of influential friends in the science ministry and Central Command. If he believed it, he had reason to.
“What will happen to the Bajorans?” she asked, not sure why it was the first question that came to mind.
His playfulness fell away, his demeanor suddenly uncharacteristically grave. “Considering the declining state of their society and their ecosystem, in my estimation they’ll be lucky to die off quickly.”
As if to illustrate his point, a lab assistant wheeled a cot through the room’s far entrance, a cadaver, mostly covered by a sheet. A Bajoran woman. Her skin was nearly white beneath the bright lights.
“If you’ll excuse me, Doctor,” Crell said, nodding at her. “I have some work to do. Perhaps we can continue this conversation at a later time?”
Kalisi nodded, already backing toward the door she’d entered by, as the assistant parked the corpse in front of Crell. She wasn’t particularly squeamish, but wasn’t interested in watching a dissection, either. She turned, thinking. She still had to decide how to handle the ministry’s “gift.” It was reprogram again or reject the computers…
She glanced back at Moset as the door slid open, and saw the Bajoran woman twitch.
Kalisi stopped, peered closer at the body as the door slid closed again. The assistant had disappeared, and Crell was pulling back the sheet to expose the woman’s bare body, so strange and smooth, no ridges crossing her midriff. Kalisi was sure she had moved, like a shiver, when he had lifted the coverlet.
He tapped at a recording panel and lifted his scalpel, leaning over the naked alien.
“Subject is mid-20s—ah, 26, I believe, no history of disease before end-stage Fostossia—”
There! The Bajoran’s hand this time, a spastic movement.
“Crell,” she said, forgetting herself as he brought the blade down.
He paused, looked up at her.
“She’s still alive,” Kalisi said.
He blinked, frowned. As though he was still waiting for her to get to the point. “Yes?”
“I thought—I mean, I suppose…” She wasn’t sure what to say, not s
ure what was happening. He acted as though performing a vivisection on a living person—a Bajoran, but still a person—was something he did every day.
He smiled, straightened slightly. He glanced about, confirming that they were alone.
“You have a tender heart, Kali,” he said. “This woman is already dead. Terminal coma. The disease was untreatable by the time she came to us. Better we learn something from her death, don’t you feel?”
Kalisi took a step back to the table, unable to look away from the Bajoran’s face. She saw it now, the quiver of her thin nostrils, a slow beat at her temple.
“What could you hope to learn?” she asked.
He gestured to the woman’s flat belly. “More about their reproductive systems, for one thing.”
“To what purpose?”
He smiled again, what she thought of as his teacher smile. “Ultimately, our work here is about finding ways to improve the health of the Bajoran labor force. To maintain optimal productivity. Gestation and child-rearing generally hinders the productivity of the parents.”
Kalisi shook her head. “You’re devising ways to sterilize them?”
His smile took on an edge of excitement. “Think. For the Union, there’s no need for another generation of Bajorans—and really, it does them a kindness. Spares them from having to watch their children starve to death, once we’re gone. And, it means a more effective work force while we’re still here.”
He leaned over the woman and made a swift, deep incision across her lower belly. Blood pulsed and pooled, slid over her bare hips to the table beneath. He lifted the flap of tissue, gestured at the wet red inside the bleeding gash, as though Kalisi would recognize the dying woman’s womb.
“That’s the problem,” he said, nodding once. “They breed like voles, pregnancies one right after another, with rapid gestation periods. An effective sterilizing agent solves it. Getting it to them would be a simple matter—we add it to one of the Fostossia boosters; they’re all required to have them. The issue is isolating the right component. I’ve already tried several formulas. There were promising results in the viral carrier, but those subjects all developed tumorous cysts. Obviously, we want to treat these people as humanely as possible.”