by S. D. Perry
“I understand your frustration,” the woman replied. “But the Federation is not a reactionary body. We do not simply travel from world to world, putting out fires. We must make a full assessment of the conflict, and whether it is our place to interfere.”
Apren took a breath. “Vice-Admiral,” he said, willing himself to sound as sincere as he could—he must put his reservations aside. “I asked you to contact me because I must humbly ask you for help. Not in driving away the Cardassians, for I firmly believe that we are capable of fighting our oppressors on our own. But once they are gone, we will need assistance to rebuild our infrastructure, our government, from the ground up. Without an established body to scaffold us, we will most likely not succeed.”
Apren could not read the woman’s reaction from her voice alone. “So…you ask only for help once Bajor has won her independence? Forgive me for saying so, but by what logic do you believe Bajor has the capacity to drive off the Cardassians now?”
“I don’t need logic,” Apren said firmly. He could not risk sharing his plans with a member of the Federation. “I have faith. I have long believed that we would be capable of triumph, but after tonight, I know it. And I know it will be soon.”
“I…believe you are wise to make preparations to govern your world,” the woman replied, “but it would not be prudent for the Federation to sanction Bajoran violence when we have a treaty with Cardassia.”
“I repeat, I am not asking for Federation assistance in our fight for independence,” Apren said firmly. “I already know I will not get it. I am only asking for assistance in the aftermath—a circumstance that I don’t believe will interfere with your…Prime Directive.”
The woman ignored the iciness in his tone. “Very well, Mister Kalem. The Federation will monitor the state of affairs on your world, and do what we deem appropriate. I will stay in touch with you, either directly or through Keeve Falor.”
The communication concluded, Apren returned to his bed, though he did not expect to sleep. He had been desperately trying to contact Jas Holza today, for he was certain that the former minister would finally agree to help supply the resistance with weapons; would finally agree to enter the B’hava’el system, once he got word of the tenuous grip the Cardassians now had. Holza had proven difficult to reach, but perhaps he would learn the news for himself now—through the Federation. Still, Kalem meant to keep trying to contact Valo III himself.
It was only a short time before his weariness overtook him, pulling him far from his troubles, and into a deep slumber. It was by hope that Apren had continued to function during all these years of the occupation, and never had his hope been more fecund than now.
Prylar Bek was only too aware of how delicate his position was, here at the shrine on Terok Nor. Dukat had allowed certain religious officials to practice on the Bajoran side of the station, but it had not been so long ago that all religious activities had been banned—and there was no telling what might motivate the prefect to ban them all over again. Bek had always done his best to stay nearly invisible where the Cardassians were concerned; any misstep on his part could lead to his immediate dismissal from the station—or even execution. As a spiritual adviser, he was far more conspicuous here than any of the other ordinary folk in ore processing—and Bek had seen plenty of them dragged off to be put to death for virtually no reason at all. He’d at least felt some degree of safety on the station when the Oralian had been here, the security chief who had seemed to genuinely want to help the Bajorans. But now he was alone, no allies to get him out of trouble if he needed them. He’d long had the unpleasant notion that he was only here because the Cardassians suspected he could be their conduit to Kai Opaka—for he had a rough system of communicating with her, though it was not direct. If the need ever arose, he spoke to the Vedek Assembly, who passed his word on to the kai. If the Cardassians had any ideas of torturing him to try and find her, he had often thought, they would be sorely disappointed. Even if he had known exactly where she was, he would never have delivered that information, not for anything.
As he lit a small duranja, a lamp honoring the dead, he heard the rustling of a long tunic; a Bajoran had entered his shrine. “Welcome, child of the Prophets,” he began, but as he turned to see the face of his visitor, his heart went cold at the sight of the stooped old man who stood before him. Kubus Oak was less welcome here than any Cardassian soldier, for he was the most notorious of the politicians who had first fallen in league with Cardassian forces, decades ago. Every Bajoran understood that without the consent of Kubus Oak, the Cardassians would never have gained the foothold they needed to overtake this world. Kubus was a Cardassian pawn—a willing one. For that reason, his name and face were deeply reviled.
“Why do you come here?” Bek said slowly. This wasn’t the first time Kubus Oak had been to the shrine. The old politician still retained some shred of his former faith and he worshiped at regularly scheduled services from time to time, but it was unprecedented for him to come here when services were not being held. Occasionally he was known to have given large sums of money toward the upkeep of certain shrines, primarily in his old district of Qui’al, a practice he no doubt expected to give him absolution for the many evils he had committed. But despite his position, he had never attempted to use his influence to protect the faith. Many believed that his attendance at services was simply a means to ingratiate himself with the very few Bajorans who still served him; even more felt that his presence at the shrines was nothing short of an affront to the Prophets themselves.
“Prylar Bek,” the old man said, with his usual hardness of voice. “I have come to ask you…to speak to the Vedek Assembly on my behalf…for I seek advice.”
“Advice?”
“Prylar…today I have been ordered to issue a statement…one which I fear will lead to my spiritual undoing.”
Bek was confused. Here was a man whose signature on a work order meant certain death for a Bajoran—and whose signature was affixed to thousands of such work orders. The man’s arrogant refusal to relinquish any fraction of his own power had caused him to land squarely in the lap of those oppressors who had taken Bajor as their own, with no regard for the fate of its people. What could Kubus Oak possibly have to fear regarding the state of his pagh—what could be worse than what he had already done? “What statement might that be, Secretary Kubus?”
“I am obliged…to inform the residents of the villages of Kendra Valley…that they must reveal the location of the resistance cell that hides in their region, or face total destruction.”
“The resistance cell…” Bek trailed off in horror. “Secretary, we must warn them—the cell. We must tell them to leave the Kendra Valley before the detection grid is restored—”
“It may already be too late,” Kubus told him. “The Cardassians have deployed troops to be stationed along the perimeters of the villages.”
Bek could not believe what was happening. “And who informed the prefect of this cell’s existence?” he asked, barely able to keep his voice under control in this holy place. “Who was responsible—”
“I had no choice!” Kubus said tightly. “You must understand my position. I have no allies left, only the Cardassians! If I fall from favor with them, then I have only the Prophets to answer to!”
“I would advise you to answer to them now,” Bek said. “You had better pray, Kubus Oak.”
“I have prayed!” Kubus insisted. “I have asked the Prophets to tell me what to do, which is what led me here, to you—”
“It is far too late for you to pray for guidance, Secretary,” Prylar Bek told him.
“But—”
“No, Secretary, if you are to pray, it must be for forgiveness. I hope They can forgive you—because I doubt any Bajoran ever could.” It was on that note that Prylar Bek turned away from Kubus, lighting another duranja and making clear with his posture that he had nothing more to say to the man. If Kubus Oak did not set this thing right, then all the prayers in the world woul
d not help him.
22
Dukat resented Kell’s presence on the station, but the aging legate made it a point to visit at least twice a year. This time, he had come without the courtesy of a scheduled announcement, leaving Dukat to feel as though he were victim to a surprise attack.
Dukat took his superior on the requisite tour around the station, knowing that none of it held the least bit of interest to the old man. His visits here were part of a simple effort to project the image of “involvement,” and to assure the Cardassian people that Bajor was indeed safe.
“Over here is the operations center’s new science station—”
“I have seen it,” the Legate said brusquely.
“Ah, yes, of course, on your last visit here we had just completed it.”
On the Promenade, Kell observed the opening and closing of the gates that barred the Bajoran laborers from entering the Cardassian side of the station without proper authorization. Two Bajorans were admitted as the legate looked on, accompanied by a press of Cardassian escorts.
“What business do those men have on this side of the station?” Kell demanded.
“I couldn’t say without asking the sentries who admitted them,” Dukat said. “I’m sure whatever the cause, it is legitimate—and trifling enough that you and I don’t need to concern ourselves with it.”
“Has security on this station always been so casual?” Kell asked.
Dukat bristled for a moment before forcing himself to smile. “Security on Terok Nor functions quite effectively, Legate.”
Kell turned back toward the habitat ring, and Dukat relaxed slightly; the old man looked as though he planned to retire for the night. “Security was not functioning effectively when the detection grid was compromised,” the legate said.
Dukat’s smile remained in place. “It’s true, Legate—and the situation would have spiraled out of control had I not acted promptly, with the strategic deployment of troops. I have repeatedly asked Central Command to send more troops here, and my requests have repeatedly been turned down—which I find puzzling, now that the situation with the border colonies is finally said to be diffused.”
“Don’t trouble yourself with the goings-on at the border,” the legate said gruffly, though Dukat had made no indication of being troubled—something that immediately suggested to him that there might be more going on in the so-called demilitarized zone than he had been led to believe.
“I am only able to do so much with the resources I have been appointed,” Dukat told him. “As you know, when my last chief of security left, I was not assigned a qualified replacement in sufficient time to maintain order, and I was forced to choose an alien to fill the position. Which isn’t to suggest that I am unhappy with the shape-shifter’s performance,” he added quickly, remembering the old man’s suggestion that he dismiss Odo, “but it is a fine example of the improvisational nature of my leadership. I have been—”
“Well, it isn’t the sabotage of your detection grid that compels me to warn you, Gul. You must be especially wary of assassination attempts.”
“Assassination! Legate, these Bajorans plan a new attempt on my life practically every week. If you weren’t aware of the danger here, then perhaps you should have stayed at home.”
“I am not speaking of Bajorans,” Kell told him, “I am speaking of Cardassians. Dissidents, Dukat. Perhaps you didn’t know it, but a very influential member of the Detapa Council recently turned up dead. All evidence suggests he was poisoned. His seat is to be filled by Yoriv Skyl. I believe you know the man.”
“Yes, the former exarch of Tozhat,” Dukat acknowledged. “His position on Tozhat has not been filled yet, thanks to the hysteria that has been so long propagated by the Detapa Council.”
“It is a difficult position,” Kell replied. “But Skyl’s resignation was not a surprise. He was given the opportunity to return home. Many men would jump at the chance.”
“Of course,” Dukat replied, “But I am not one of those men.”
Kell eyed the prefect, and then went on. “I fear that it is only a matter of time before members of Central Command are targeted. There have been no leads as to who could be responsible for the death of Yoriv Skyl’s predecessor—a colonialist, I might add—one who understood the importance of military control.”
“No leads!” Dukat exclaimed. “Is a definitive lead necessary to make an example of someone? Can’t you simply find a suitable scapegoat and call it done?”
“Of course we could,” Kell said sourly. “But do you believe it would deter subsequent attacks, if the murderer learns that he can continue to strike and see another man pay for his crime? Tell me, Dukat, is this the method you use to keep your Bajoran subjects in line? Because I must say, it seems to me that such a tactic would only be effective in frightening children and old women, while doing nothing to discourage potential violence by those who pose the greatest threat.”
Dukat had no reply, especially since random executions were a method for which Kell himself had long advocated, and he could not argue with the man without outwardly calling him a hypocrite. He escorted the legate back to his quarters in a cold fury.
“There’s one last thing, Dukat,” Kell said as he turned to face the gul after crossing the threshold to his stateroom. “I was contacted recently by Enabran Tain. He has asked for a favor that I have chosen to grant.”
“What is that to me?” Dukat scoffed. “Tain is retired.”
“Don’t be naïve,” Kell snapped. “Retired or not, one does not ignore personal requests from a man who was head of the Obsidian Order. That’s especially true for you in this case, since it involves this station of yours.”
“I see,” Dukat said through his teeth. “And the nature of this request?”
“One of the Order’s operatives has become something of an embarrassment to the organization. For whatever reason, sanctioning the man isn’t an option Tain is willing to entertain. He wishes the operative exiled here.”
Dukat fumed. “Terok Nor isn’t a retirement facility.”
“No,” Kell agreed. “But Tain is under the impression that, for this individual, it will be a satisfactory humiliation. He’s to be give the opportunity to serve the Union here in some menial capacity, without privilege or status. But—and we need to be absolutely clear about this, Dukat—he is not to be touched. Is that understood?”
Dukat’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who is he?”
But Kell, now wearing an unsettlingly amused expression, had already turned his back on the prefect and allowed the cabin door to close in Dukat’s face.
Natima’s blood ran cold when Russol contacted her at home, for she knew the reason for his call. The dissident movement had been weakened as a result of what had recently been done, many of the followers dispersing to worlds outside the Union grasp, for the fear of repercussion proved to be more powerful than the hope of governmental reform.
Natima didn’t know which of her comrades had actually killed the colonialist governor who had been replaced with Yoriv Skyl. She didn’t know exactly how the man had died, though the comnets were all saying poison. Russol had emphasized that it was best if the dissidents knew as little as possible regarding the actual deed; in case any of them were captured, they could tell no tales of that which they did not know. But Natima felt as certain as if he had told her so, that it was Russol who had done it. While she supposed it should have made her opinion of him waver, it did not. She still admired and trusted him as much as she ever had; after all, he was a soldier, and this was not the first time he had killed. But something had changed, something she could not put name to. She would always look at him differently, somehow, if only because he had made her see exactly how driven he was to see things change.
“Natima,” her friend said, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. “It is for your own safety that I propose this.” He spoke carefully, avoiding reference to particular topics, but still his message was plain. “The Sadera system is the s
afest place for us.”
“I can’t leave,” she told him. “Please understand. Cardassia II is my home. I…can do too much good here to just leave.”
“You can always return when the…climate is more favorable.”
“But I am to attain my professorship in only a few months time,” she told him. “I know you understand what a great honor and accomplishment this is for me. I did not expect to be awarded this position for another year. If I were to leave now, I could lose my seniority…and it would disappoint many of my students, who have come to trust me as a mentor.”
Natima did not know how to explain to Russol the relationships she had with many of her students—the almost familial ties she had begun to forge with some of her younger protégés was especially powerful. It made her feel more like a mother than she ever could have imagined—something she had never expected to experience.
“I know that you can do much good in your current position, Natima…but I beg you…”
“I don’t want to leave my work behind,” she said firmly. “I feel that my teachings can be an inspiration to the next generation of Cardassians. It’s too early for me to leave, Gaten.”
He sighed. “Very well. But I…will miss your friendship. I will be going to the Sadera system myself before long. I have only a few more assignments to carry out before the end of my commission, and then…perhaps…in the future, I will see you there.”
“In the future,” she told him. “I will hope for that.”
Natima ended the transmission, thinking how much she would miss her old friend. He had been to her like family, but within the university, she had a new family now—a new generation of thinkers, of independent-minded individuals who would help to make the Cardassia of tomorrow a better place than the Cardassia of today.
The Shikina Monastery was mostly silent, the monks of the order going about even more somberly than usual, the vedeks scarcely speaking among themselves. Prylar Bek had been putting through frantic transmissions to the vedeks of the assembly for over a week, but none had any advice for him that could allay his fears.