by S. D. Perry
“If you’re taking me to be interrogated, you could at least tell me,” she said, grasping for some clue. “Is it Odo? Is he—”
His grip tightened, cutting off her words. “Quiet!”
The Bajorans they passed looked away, went about their business, plodding to or from some assigned destination. Kira felt ill, and as they neared the ops access lifts, she started to think she might actually vomit.
“I feel sick,” she said.
“That’s too bad,” he said, not looking at her as they passed the lifts, heading for the crossover bridge to the outer ring. The docking ring.
Were their interrogation rooms in the outer ring? She didn’t know…but the dalin was a security officer, Odo was head of security…
Kira kept her mouth shut, concentrating on keeping up. They walked to the access corridor, entered it. The hall’s design, like the rest of the station, was stark and cold, maybe to balance the dreadful heat, and they walked straight through two security checks, the soldiers saluting, the dalin nodding in turn.
He was going to let her go. Or, he was going to shove her out of an airlock. Either way, she was through with Terok Nor.
I’ll come back the day the last Cardassian leaves, she promised herself, latching on to the thought; it implied that she would survive this, somehow.
They turned a corner, and there was a small group of Bajoran men and women waiting at one of the station’s wide, rolling locks. None of them looked well. Kira recognized one of them from her ward, a woman who suffered respiratory problems associated with breathing heavily particulated air. Jaryn, something like that. Even with the nose filters, a lot of the workers suffered chronic conditions.
The officer shoved her into the line, just as a Cardassian pilot stepped out of the lock, his expression bored.
“Is she going to the hospital, too?” he asked, nodding at Kira.
“No. This one is to be released in the Dahkur Province. By order of Dukat.”
Dukat?
She looked at the dalin, back at the pilot. Were they exchanging some silent information? Was it a trick? The pilot nodded, started filing the other passengers in. As the dalin turned to leave, Kira stepped after him.
“What’s going on?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Why are you—”
Before she could speak another word, he’d gripped her arm again, roughly turning her back toward the moving line. “There’s a two-minute delay on the security captures in this sector. Keep your back to the cameras.”
She nodded, recognizing that she was being given a tremendous gift. “I—thank you,” she said.
He hesitated, finally looking at her. “Thank the shape-shifter,” he said, and then walked away.
17
Thrax had been doing this sort of thing for a very long time, but somehow, his years of experience made it no easier for him. He was always fearful of getting caught, hence the elaborate tactics he took to avoid arousing the suspicion of Central Command—or worse, the Order. He didn’t have it in him to be comfortably sly; that sort of manner was better suited to the man he was about to make contact with.
He approached the Public Hall of Records, looking for his contact but knowing that Esad would not make his presence known until Thrax reached the agreed-upon point of encounter. He entered the great building and went to the third level, where copies of modern works of poetry were kept, along with recent literature. He removed an isolinear rod from a shelf in front of him and plugged it into his padd, perusing with feigned interest.
A voice behind him made him jump. “Is this any good?” a man asked.
Thrax turned, his breath hitching. He half expected to see a stranger, but instead he saw the thin, jagged features of Kutel Esad, the man who had served directly under Enabran Tain for the last nine years of Tain’s tenure as the head of the Obsidian Order. Esad was holding in his hand an isolinear recording, identical to those that were used here at the Hall of Records, but Thrax knew that this particular recording did not belong here.
“The collected works of Maran Bry,” Esad said, pretending to read it from the label on his isolinear rod.
“Bry’s work is not for everyone,” Thrax said. He tried his best to sound natural, but his voice hardly sounded like his own.
“Is it for you?” Esad asked him. The wiry man, though he had a reputation for his cautiousness, maintained his cool composure in the face of Thrax’s readily apparent nervousness.
Thrax recited the lines of one of Maran Bry’s more controversial poems that had been agreed as code to proceed with the exchange. His voice wavered, though he had chosen the verse himself. If he delivered the words incorrectly, would Esad carry through with the exchange? The older man was well known for his strict insistence on careful adherence to procedure, down to every last detail. Even though he knew Thrax’s face by sight, he did not trust that the Order wouldn’t place a surgically altered plant in his place—if their interest in the Oralian Way warranted such a measure.
“The cold hands of a foreign morning/press themselves within my breast/isolating me from the comfort of my world’s motherhood.”
Esad handed him the rod. “You would appreciate this better than I,” he said, and turned to go.
Thrax removed the rod that he had inserted in his padd and replaced it with the one Esad had just given him. He read for a moment, and then removed the rod, placing it back on the shelf for Esad to retrieve later. He pocketed his padd and walked as quickly as his legs could take him without actually running. He needed to get to Astraea right away.
Kalisi Reyar sat and waited, and waited…and waited.
After her conversation with her father, things had happened quickly. She’d been contacted by Dost Abor almost immediately, an extremely polite message suggesting that she pack her things and expect transport within the week. She was ready within hours of the transmission. There was little to pack, no mementos she wished to keep; Bajor had been a long, embarrassing discomfort, beginning to end, and she’d felt only relief at the thought of leaving.
Even if it was to come here again, she thought, looking around at the small, cold room where she’d first met with Dost Abor, on his dark, hidden world. It was as unpleasant as she remembered, but it was also her last stop before home. She could stand it a little longer—although it had been hours since she’d given the agent her information, hours of fidgeting and second-guessing, of looking over her padd with virtually no interest, and she was starting to wonder what was taking so very long. Starting to worry a little.
What if the story didn’t check out? She’d given him the information about the identity change, Miras to Astraea, and detailed what Moset had told her about the ancient religion holding meetings in Cardassia City. In the Torr sector, he’d said. Surely, they had enough to find Miras Vara by now. Kalisi felt a dull pang of guilt. Miras had been a sweet girl, but no great mind.
She had been sitting alone for the better part of the day when Dost Abor finally walked in. Kalisi stood up, eager to be finished, to be escorted back to the ship.
“May I go now?”
Abor smiled. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid.”
He gestured for her to sit again. Kalisi did so, feeling the worry bloom anew. “Didn’t—you weren’t able to confirm my information?”
“We were,” Abor said. “Your information may well have been good a few days ago. But unfortunately, our agent found nothing but a shop that sells replicator parts, where we had anticipated finding a hideout for Oralians. Perhaps someone warned this Astraea that we were coming. Perhaps your information was not correct in the first place.”
Kalisi didn’t know what to say. She felt that she should apologize, somehow, but that was ridiculous. It wasn’t her fault that Miras had run. It should have been a quick, simple affair to find her and bring her in. If the Order couldn’t manage even that, then how was Kalisi to blame?
“Because we were unable to benefit from this information,” Abor continued, “I’m afraid we can’t help you with your proble
m.”
Kalisi wanted to protest, but understood the way things worked within the Order. “Of course,” she said, feeling a kind of numbness settle over her.
Crell Moset, alive and well and waiting at the university. Waiting for the documentation of his vaccine work…and for me. What happened when she didn’t contact him? When he found out that his sterilization formula had been destroyed? Would he bother to go back to Bajor, to re-create his death vaccine, and she’d have risked everything for no gain? She couldn’t go into hiding, she had family to consider…But there’d be no position at Culat, no future at all once he reported her sabotage, and that she couldn’t bear.
I’ll kill him myself, she thought, but knew she didn’t have the nerve. The will, yes, but she was no killer…unless…If she could pretend to care for him a while longer, perhaps he would be willing to listen to her explanation…
At the thought of being with him again, she decided she’d rather have him dead. Her father would help her, he had other friends—
“I understand, you know,” Dost Abor said, drawing her back to the chill room.
“Understand?”
“That you felt you had no choice.”
Kalisi blinked, felt her cheeks darken. How could he know about her relationship to Crell Moset? Or was he referring to the destruction of Moset’s work? “What do you mean?”
“Now, Doctor Reyar—may I call you Kalisi? Kalisi, you strike me as a woman with a conscience. It’s understandable, that’s all I meant to say. I believe that someone warned Astraea.”
She started to shake her head, understanding and disbelief creeping through her veins. “No,” she said.
“Perhaps you saw an opening, a way to finally recover your career, after your sad showing as a weapons designer,” he said, his sympathy exaggerated. “You remembered an old friend, thought that gaining from her inevitable capture was no great evil. All for the good of the Union, after all. Why you’d want your lover killed is beyond me, but perhaps you’ve taken another.”
Abor smiled, his teeth shining in the dim light. “Or perhaps he wasn’t satisfying. In any case, you made your choice. And then you thought twice about your decision.”
“No,” she said again, shaking her head more violently. “No. I want to speak to my father, right now.”
“Now, Kalisi,” Abor said, his voice soothing. “In spite of certain methods we’re sometimes forced to employ, the Order is, at core, a gentle organization. Our interests are the same as yours—we seek to acquire knowledge that will benefit the Cardassian people.”
He raised his hands, gestured vaguely at the room. “This facility acts as an information filter, as a research center, sometimes even a laboratory. We have several just like it seeded throughout the galaxy, places we can gather data without fear of harassment by Central Command. For the agent who chooses to utilize the resources here, there is no end to what can be accomplished.”
She said nothing. She was a citizen of the Union, she had done nothing wrong—
—negligence, sabotage—
—and surely her fear was an overreaction. She’d been frightened last time, too, and it had been for naught. Even as she told herself these things, however, she remembered that she wasn’t a stupid person, nor did she believe in self-deceit. Not in matters where someone else held such immediate power over her.
“The Order does not appreciate having its time wasted,” Abor said, his voice as cold as she knew it would be. “Nor do we care to have our agents put in potentially dangerous situations, because our informant is unable to decide whether or not she wishes to help us.” He drew a breath, and then his voice became carelessly cordial again. “I’ve been at this facility for far too long, I suppose,” he told her. “It’s hard…to see what is perceived as a way out of an unpleasant situation, only to learn that your credibility has just been compromised, perhaps beyond repair.”
She saw the phaser in his hand, and thought that her father would be heartbroken and furious, and then she wondered if she would have had children. She hoped the Bajorans would take advantage of what she’d given them. Funny, that her last living thought would be of them, but then—
Dost Abor fired, and Kalisi Reyar didn’t think anymore.
Kira stepped onto the shuttle with the rest of the passengers, helping the wheezing man in front of her take his seat before she took her own. The shuttle was small—there were seats for only twenty—but not quite full. It had obviously been in commission for some time, ferrying small groups to and from Bajor’s surface; the seats were worn, the paneling faded. There was only one Cardassian aboard, the pilot; apparently, the riders were too sickly to warrant a guard.
Kira settled into her seat, tense and watchful. No one spoke, but Jaryn, the woman she’d met on her ward, smiled at her, her eyes kind.
Almost out of this, Kira thought, watching the shuttle door, waiting to hear the telltale rush of internal air that signaled they were ready to leave. Kira was starting to feel like she could breathe again when a Bajoran man stepped on board. Compared to the other Bajorans on the station, the balding man was well-dressed and clean, and his face had a hard, superior look. As he scanned the seated passengers, his expression suggested that the sight of so many sick people disgusted him—and when his mean gaze reached Kira, the smile that broke across his face told her the rest of it.
Collaborator.
“Kira Nerys,” he said. “You’re to come with me.”
Kira stared at him, not moving. She feigned confusion. “Who?”
His hand dropped to his belt, and she saw the disruptor tucked there. “Just get up.”
She unbelted and stood, trying to keep her face a blank. Inside she seethed, her fear finally overwhelmed by the revulsion she felt, looking at him. A Cardassian had helped her escape; this Bajoran was taking her back.
The shuttle pilot stepped out from behind the partition at the front of the small vessel. He looked at the Bajoran man, at Kira, back to the Bajoran.
“Get off my shuttle,” the pilot snapped.
“I’m taking her with me,” the collaborator said, nodding at Kira.
“No, you’re not,” the pilot said. “She’s going to Dahkur, Dukat’s orders. Now get off before I put you off.”
“Dukat’s—” The Bajoran drew himself upright, his expression imperious. “Do you know who I am?”
The pilot looked him up and down with disdain. “You’re a Bajoran. That means you’re nobody.”
The passengers all held quite still, perhaps aware that they weren’t in any shape to protest. Kira felt her temper flare.
“Oh, for fire’s sake—” The Bajoran man reached for the padd tucked into his belt, tapped a few keys, presumably calling up his identification. He handed it to the pilot, who accepted it as though it might be a bomb.
While the pilot read, the Bajoran man grabbed her by the arm, the same place the dalin had gripped her, and she winced, pulling away.
“Now, Nerys, don’t be like that,” the Bajoran said, and it was all she could do not to punch him. Who was he, to be so familiar?
“This appears to be in order,” the pilot said reluctantly.
“You said she was supposed to go to Dahkur,” the Bajoran said. “Is that where the rest of them are going?”
The pilot shook his head. “One of the testing facilities. A hospital.”
The Bajoran spoke in her ear, his voice soft. “You’re lucky I came when I did, then. They like to do experiments on pretty little things like you. You didn’t really think he was going to take you to Dahkur, did you?”
Kira recoiled from him, her skin crawling. She looked out the open door onto the empty docking platform, saw that there weren’t any other soldiers. The collaborator had come alone.
“He said she was to be released in Dahkur,” the pilot insisted sullenly, still hesitant to answer to a Bajoran. “Dukat’s orders.”
“Who told you that?” the Bajoran asked. “You’ll have to come with me to the prefect’s o
ffice, immediately. This needs to be resolved.”
The shuttle’s captain shook his head, handing the padd back to him. “I’ve just received clearance for departure. I’m on a schedule. You got what you came for, didn’t you? I’ll be back in twenty-six hours, I can make a report then.”
The balding man released Kira to take the padd back. “You have no choice in the matter,” he said. “Whoever told you that this…this woman…is to be released was not acting upon Gul Dukat’s authority, I can assure you. The prefect will want to speak with you directly.”
The pilot didn’t care for the way things were going. “Let me see your identification again,” he said darkly, backing up a step. The pompous collaborator stepped forward, and Kira realized her opportunity had come.
She didn’t stop to think. As the Bajoran held out his padd, Kira stepped forward and took the phaser from his belt, the motion fast and fluid. He squawked, turning, and she pulled back with the phaser and hit him with it, as hard as she could.
The weapon glanced off his left temple with a dull chunk, splitting the skin, but he was on the floor before he’d started to bleed, out cold.
The Cardassian dropped the padd, grabbing for his own phaser, and Kira stepped back, flipping the weapon against her palm. She pointed and fired, releasing a brilliant blast of light in the small cabin.
The pilot fell, the smoking hole in his chest telling her that the phaser had been set high. The passengers were trying to get up, talking, their voices high with fear.
“Hey,” Kira called, keeping her voice low but pitched to carry. “Calm down, please. I’m taking us home, okay? Just—just buckle in.”
She hurried back to the open door, spun it closed, her heart racing. She turned, looked at the two bodies crumpled by the partition. One dead, the other only stunned—she could see that the Bajoran breathed still. She raised the phaser, thinking that it would be the second Bajoran she’d killed in as many weeks.
Second collaborator, she told herself, and that she had no choice. She fired at close range before she could consider it any further. She didn’t want to consider it any further; only wondered, for a brief glimmer of a second, what could motivate a Bajoran to turn on his own people like this.