by S. D. Perry
Since learning the news of the threat on her son’s life, the kai had taken to her quarters, a secret room visited by only the most senior members of the Vedek Assembly—and Vedek Bareil. Bareil approached her there, though he knew that she had asked for solitude so that she could meditate. He was still desperately trying to work out a solution to the current danger. It was looking more and more as though it would be the villages—over a thousand people—and not the resistance cell, which would bear the brunt of Dukat’s anger. Nobody in the Kendra Valley was willing to turn over the son of the kai, just as Bareil had expected.
“Your Eminence,” Bareil reported. “As it currently stands, the villages are slated for destruction in less than twenty-six hours. I have contacted Kalem Apren.”
“Oh?” the kai replied, but she did not look at Bareil.
“Yes, Your Eminence. I know you feel that Kalem is somehow going to be instrumental to Bajor’s rebirth, in the time of the Emissary…”
“I have never spoken of such things with you, Bareil.”
“No, but—” He stopped. She had never spoken her thoughts to him, but he knew. “I tried to convince him to save himself—that perhaps there is some means of smuggling him out of the village—but he refuses to even consider it. He says his people need him.”
“They do need him,” Opaka said. “Now more than ever, but they will continue to need him.”
Bareil went on. “I have been considering—if I were to go to Dukat with a false location outside the Kendra Valley for your son’s cell, perhaps it could buy us enough time to contact another resistance cell—someone who could help those in the rest of the villages to escape.”
The kai appeared quite tired, and seemed somehow smaller than her already small size, as though she’d shrunk within her skin. “Vedek Bareil, the resistance does not have the means to evacuate the villages. Even if it were possible to convince Dukat that Fasil’s cell was elsewhere, there are many people in the villages who could not tolerate evacuation—elderly people, terminally ill people, people with small children…”
“We could get them to the forest, somehow. The detection grid is still nonfunctional, Your Eminence—we must use this fact to our best advantage!”
“You have concerned yourself with this matter far beyond your call of obligation, Vedek. I would request that you go to the Dakeen Monastery until this incident is concluded.”
“Eminence! I cannot leave at a time like this!”
“This is exactly the time for you to go, Bareil.”
“Kai—Eminence—” He could not express the frustration and horror he’d felt, watching this conundrum unfold. He knew he was overstepping his bounds, but he could not help himself. “What is it that you have foreseen? Why will you not act?”
The small woman sighed, her shoulders hunched as though the weight of their world rested upon them. “All I can tell you is that this is the way it must be. Whatever happens, it is Their will.”
Bareil felt frustrated by her answer. Ambiguity and pessimism were unusual for Kai Opaka. “Your Eminence…you have always told me that the Prophets look after those who look after themselves…that we show our greatest trust in the Prophets by having faith in our own abilities to solve our troubles.”
“I have faith in my own abilities,” Opaka said, her voice soft. “And I have faith in my own visions, as well. I have foreseen this, Vedek Bareil.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Your suggestions…will lead to an unfortunate path.”
“Then we must ask the Prophets for the right answer!”
“The right answer, Vedek—or the answer that you want to hear?”
Bareil wished that for once, the steady leader would question her own beliefs. “You cannot be sure that—”
“Vedek, I am ordering you to go. I will not tell you again.”
Bareil felt gripped with misery. “Yes, Your Eminence.”
“But before you go, Bareil, you must put me in touch with Prylar Bek.”
“Prylar Bek?” Bareil repeated. “Do you mean…you would like me to convey a message to him for you?”
“No, Vedek Bareil. I will speak to him myself. Please arrange it for me, and then go.”
Bareil left the kai, holding out a thin ray of hope that perhaps Prylar Bek was still in contact with his Oralian, or perhaps he could somehow exercise some sort of influence over Kubus Oak—even Dukat himself. Perhaps Opaka knew something that she wasn’t telling, something that could keep her son safe. Perhaps she was protecting Bareil from a greater threat that she could not reveal. He struggled with his own doubt, but he was not ready to disobey a direct order from the kai. He headed to his room to gather some things, and to contact Prylar Bek.
The streets of Vekobet were empty but for a scant bold number of Bajorans. Soldiers spilled out into the abandoned regions of towns, searching the old, ruined habitat districts for the hiding place of Opaka Fasil and his resistance cell. They would not find them—of that, Kalem Apren was sure. Theirs was one of the most carefully concealed cells on Bajor, the secret of their location fiercely guarded by the few who knew it. Most Bajorans were reluctant to give up any resistance cell, but none would turn the kai’s own son over to the Cardassians.
Kalem was in his basement, the same place where he had conducted so many clandestine council meetings for the citizens of Kendra. Today, the low-ceilinged root cellar was more packed than it had been at the most hopeful of those gatherings, and Kalem still knew that it would offer them no protection from what was to come. They were here as much for the company of one another as for the false sense of security they conjured while huddling tightly together in the sweltering, sour-smelling dark. Raina had brought some chairs down from the main floor of their home, but most people were sitting together on blankets that had been laid on the hard dirt floor. Some were talking, halting amiability having begun to return to their conversation in the past few days. Others were tending to their children. Several were praying, but most were still sleeping—the best refuge they could have sought.
Kalem had made hasty arrangements with the others in his village. Anyone who requested shelter was not to be turned away, but so many had come, and how could Kalem refuse them? Despite how very futile it must be to hide under the flimsy floorboards of an ancient dwelling, at least they would not have to die alone.
Kalem continued to venture outside from time to time with a few of the others, gathering supplies as necessary and making futile attempts to communicate with the Cardassian soldiers, and with the few stubborn Bajorans who continued to go about their business, refusing to hide. Few had attempted to evacuate; it was well understood that no one could get far enough away to make any difference. There was still a hopeful current in his mind that insisted there might be a way to negotiate with the Cardassians—if the Cardassians would only answer his requests for a conference. No word from anyone about when to expect an attack, only frightened comm transmissions back and forth between the few households that had access to communications equipment.
Then all the soldiers, without exception, abruptly departed Vekobet.
It was mid-morning, or at least, Kalem thought it was, when he began to hear the sound of ships overhead. “Stay calm, everyone,” he announced. “Perhaps they are coming to negotiate. We will wait to be contacted before we make any assumptions.”
It did little good. People began to cry, those who were sleeping quickly awakening to slap their hands over their ears and cling to their loved ones in terror. Kalem did his best to calm them, but nobody was listening to him, only tilting their faces upward to the floor of the house. A few stumbled over one another to get to the stairs, wanting to see what was going to happen; others held them back, arguing and wailing. All the while, the terrible growling drone from overhead continued to crescendo. A single word permeated Kalem’s consciousness. Soon. He waited for the flotilla overhead to drown out the crying all around him.
But there was no sudden press of fire and devastation, no wild screaming as bomb
s fell, no intense flashes of heat and light. Instead, there was a discernible shift in the direction from which the flyers seemed to be coming, and everyone else heard it too. The stillness of the air in the basement returned as everyone stopped crying to listen, even the children seeming to know that something had changed.
“They’re heading for the forest,” someone announced fearfully, and Kalem did not waste another moment clambering up the stairs, followed by many others who wished to confirm what they were all thinking: their lives were to be spared, but at a cost that none felt they could afford.
Kalem ventured outside to look up at the sky, and instantly he saw the small formation of attack craft in the sky—headed away from the village, passing it over for another target. There were not nearly enough ships to have taken out the entirety of the Kendra Valley, Kalem realized. And he knew then that he was going to live, but he took no joy in that realization at all.
Many other people were standing in the streets now, looking to where the Cardassian flyers were headed. “Are we saved?” asked a small boy, standing just outside Kalem’s brick home next to his sniffling mother, and the woman held her son close.
“Shhh,” she said to him, leaving Kalem to wonder how much the child had known of what everyone believed was going to happen. Had his mother explained any of it to him, or simply insisted that he come along to spend the nights in a stranger’s house? How well-behaved the children have been these past days, Kalem thought to himself, and he imagined the things these children had seen in their short lifetimes, so different from his own carefree childhood. He would do almost anything in his power to change it for this youth—for all of them.
“You’ll be just fine, son,” Kalem told the boy, swallowing down the lump in his throat and trying on a smile. A few others made attempts at weak reassurances to one another, more and more people coming up from the basement now and out into the glinting sunlight of a cold morning.
But those assurances quickly turned to sorrow as the flyers began to dive, at a point too far away from where they all stood now to get a proper picture of what was happening, but the resultant echoing thunder in the sky gave a clear voice to the unseen horror, and the people commenced to wailing again, even louder than when they had thought their own lives were in danger.
23
Bareil had been unable to focus on his studies at the Dakeen Monastery. The place was remote, and sequestered completely from outside influences. Bareil already knew that he had been sent to the monastery to keep him from learning the outcome of the prefect’s ultimatum. For whatever reason, the kai did not want his interference in her plan, if she even had a plan.
From Dakeen, he had been summoned to Terok Nor, where Prylar Bek was in a nearly inconsolable state, where Bareil was finally informed of what had transpired. The prylar had been in almost constant contact with the Shikina Monastery for the past week or so, demanding to see Bareil, but apparently Opaka had not granted his request until now—now that it was too late.
Feeling desperately sad, Bareil traveled home to Shikina, flanked by Cardassian escorts. They dumped him off at the shuttle port just outside of Iwara, the farthest village from the monastery. He could see the peaked roofs of two of the larger structures in Ashalla, just visible over the tree canopy directly in his path: the stone house of a former member of cabinet, now occupied by some of that man’s extended family, and an old building of commerce.
It had rained early this morning, and the smell of wet grasses was overpowering. He traveled on foot through two small villages and through the winding passages in the forest, used by almost no one. On Terok Nor, Prylar Bek had arranged for a religious official’s permit to be issued to Bareil, so that he might travel without fear of interference by soldiers, but it mattered little now that the detection grid had been disabled.
Bareil felt half-lost for most of his journey, following a few ambiguous landmarks he relied on to help him find his way. He scarcely ever left the monastery himself, and was not familiar enough with the journey to have the route committed to memory. It was almost fully dark before he saw the lights of the monastery. The kai was waiting for him in her dayroom, the chamber where she conducted most of her daily business. He felt he had a thousand questions, but when he saw her face, saw the loss there, the resigned despair, he could find only one word. “Why?”
There was silence for a long time, and then Opaka spoke, her tone soft. “I don’t know, Vedek Bareil. I don’t know why. I only know that it had to be.”
“But…Your Eminence…”
He saw that her eyes were shining with tears. Her voice was hoarse from weeping, but she spoke with the same coolness that she always employed. “Vedek Bareil, I realize that this is difficult. But your faith must not waver now, for things are only going to become more difficult in time.”
He shook his head, not understanding. “But you keep insisting that Bajor is going to be free soon. You keep saying that peace is just within our grasp!”
“This is so,” she said. “But circumstances will grow worse before they can get better. We must not falter.”
“Worse than the death of your son? Kai Opaka, what more can the Prophets ask of you?”
Her face did not change, though her tone was noticeably less cool. “You must have faith.”
“I have faith in the Prophets,” he said. “And I have faith in you.”
She nodded. “I know. But it is not what the Prophets will ask of me, Bareil. If we are ever to have peace with Cardassia, it will be because of you, not because of me.”
Bareil took a moment to try and absorb what she had told him. He did not know if he liked the message he gleaned from what she was saying—that she expected him to succeed her. He was not sure if he would be up to the task, especially not if the Prophets required such costly sacrifices. He felt a new surge of anger, of incomprehension.
“Prylar Bek told me,” she said softly, “that he had been in contact with an Oralian on the station, those years ago when he sent word to us to evacuate from the shrine…”
“So—you were the one who told Prylar Bek?” He asked her in a thin voice.
Opaka’s voice was far away. “The Oralian had told him—had believed with unwavering certainty—that it was you, Bareil, who would be imperative to the future of relations between our two worlds, not me. It was you that he sought to save when we fled here from the shrine at Kendra.”
“Who told Prylar Bek?” Bareil repeated.
“Prylar Bek was reluctant to tell the secretary,” Opaka said. “I did my best to explain it to him, of course, but…” She trailed off.
Bareil struggled with her answer. “The people of Bajor…must never know that it was you who did this, Your Eminence.”
Opaka said nothing in answer.
“And I trust you, Kai Opaka…but I don’t know if there is any way that you could possibly explain this to make me understand your reasons.”
The kai made a mournful sound, her placid resolve finally cracking. “How can I explain them when I don’t fully understand them myself? I agreed to come to this monastery to be nearer to the Prophets, so that I might learn to translate the messages they send to me, but I am no better an interpreter of my visions than I was when I first encountered the Tear. I don’t know why They chose this outcome. I only know that They did.”
Opaka’s face broke, and she let out a low, plaintive cry of unrestrained grief, turning away from him. Bareil left her alone in the vestibule, closing the door behind him, though on any normal day the door would have remained open. This was most assuredly not a normal day. All he could do was pray for her, for all of them…and hope that it was all somehow for the best.
Yoriv Skyl had only been a member of the Detapa Council for a few months, but apparently the young man was already making waves. Legate Tekeny Ghemor noted, as he read the latest bulletin, that Skyl and some of the Pa’Dar family had put in a proposal to bring the Bajoran issue to the table for determination yet again. Ghemor reviewed the bu
lletin for a third time, picturing to himself the reaction of his friend Gaten Russol, wondering if the gul had read this report yet. He decided to contact the younger man, for a casual discussion of the bulletin, nothing more. It shouldn’t raise any suspicions—Ghemor felt reasonably certain of that.
But before he could put the call through to Russol, he received a startling announcement from Legate Danig Kell, a confidential transmission that was to be sent only to a handful of the highest-ranking officials in Central Command, Ghemor among them.
“My fellow legates,” Kell began. The old soldier’s expression was, as usual, bordering somewhere on the menacing. “I regret to report that the subjects on our Bajoran host world are in a state of complete insurrection, because of an unfortunate series of decisions made by that world’s prefect. I have decided to approach the situation from an entirely new angle.”
Ghemor tuned in with heightened interest.
“Gul Dukat is to make an announcement to the Bajoran people regarding their government; they will be told that the current members of the Bajoran cabinet are to be dismissed. Those outgoing cabinet members will bear the brunt of Bajoran frustration, as it will be made clear to the people of Bajor that these ineffective politicians are to blame for their current complaints. A small group of Bajorans shall be chosen to lead the new government. This group will be carefully hand-picked, by the prefect and myself, although every effort will be made to establish the appearance of democratic process for the benefit of the Bajoran people.”
A mock election, Ghemor mused. By Kell’s logic, if the Bajorans believed they were electing their new leaders, they would be appeased enough to halt their uprisings. But Ghemor had his doubts as to the effectiveness of the plan. The Bajorans were a put-upon people, short on loyalty and long on suspicion. Cardassia could never hope to win their trust. It was the heart of the reasoning behind the Detapa Council’s repeated insistence that the Bajoran situation be reassessed, and though most members of Central Command were not supposed to be in agreement with that opinion, Ghemor felt very strongly that pulling out of Bajor was the only sensible solution.