Meya Rejal’s response was to broadcast to the Union every night, capital time, making soothing noises about the need to maintain law and order and the integrity of Cardassia’s borders at this difficult time of transition. No mention of elections or Ghemor, as if she hoped that by talking in vague terms about threats to the Union, people would panic and forget about both. It didn’t work. The old propagandists had been able to lie as much as they liked and not worry about the consequences. Meya Rejal was discovering something her predecessors had never had to bother about: that public opinion was something to be reckoned with. The talking in the streets went on, the broadsheets multiplied in number, and every so often, a group of people made some banners and stood outside the Council Chamber or the Assembly Hall and chanted: “We want elections. We want Ghemor.” Occasionally, Kotan wondered whether Rugal was mixed up in any of this. He would have been appalled if he’d known to what extent.
The night of the Declaration, Rugal went to the usual collection point outside Torr Central Station and waited for the deathtrap. It didn’t turn up. As he made his way slowly back to Coranum, he thought that perhaps the events of the day had kept the others at home. When he wasn’t collected the following night either, he knew something was up. He couldn’t find an address for Erani or Tekis, but he tracked Arric down to a loft in west Torr. When Arric saw Rugal on his step, he tried to close the door in his face. Rugal shoved his shoulder in the way. “You don’t have to let me in! I just want to know what’s going on!”
“I’m not going to tell you anything. Not now!”
“Arric, I am not and I never was a member of the Order. I wanted to help, that was all. I still want to help. Can’t we talk?”
“Talk? You never talked! That was the problem! You turned up from nowhere and you never said a thing about yourself—”
“If it matters so much, I’ll talk now! My name’s Rugal Pa’Dar. I got left behind on Bajor and I was brought up by Bajorans. My father is Kotan Pa’Dar. He’s a member of the Detapa Council. I didn’t tell you that before because until last week he was under house arrest and I didn’t want to put you in danger. I don’t understand this place and I keep on making mistakes. But I only want to help! Everything’s changing and I want to help!”
From behind Arric, a female voice, tired and slightly irritated, said, “Oh, let him in, will you? He sounds almost as sincere as Erani and he’s going to wake the baby.”
Arric opened the door slowly and stepped back. Rugal went past him into a long, open-plan room with a kitchen at one end and some partitions at the other. Sitting on a couch by a small viewscreen in a bashed-up case was a young female. “I’m Serna,” she said. “Keep the noise down, will you? I’ve only just got Tela down.”
Arric gestured Rugal toward a chair, then sat down next to Serna. “All right,” he said. “Let’s hear the story again.”
Starting with the ill-fated journey to Deep Space 9, Rugal told them everything. No more secrets. He finished with what he had said on the doorstep. “I know you have something to do with the broadsheets and the transmissions from Lang and everything else that’s going on around here. I want to help.”
Arric glanced at Serna, who shrugged. He cleared his throat. “You said your father is on the Detapa Council. So why are you here? Why aren’t you up in Coranum learning the family trade?”
“I don’t want all that! Look, I have this friend—Penelya—and she gets stopped on the shuttle by police officers, all because her parents were killed by the Maquis. That’s not right! And all those people we’ve helped, Arric, all those people down by the river—it shouldn’t be like that. Cardassia has enough to go around, so long as everyone is willing to work hard and to share—and isn’t happy to hide away in Coranum pretending nothing is wrong. This is Cardassia’s chance—like Bajor had a chance with the Resistance—to become something better.” He opened out his palms; this was everything he had to give. “I just think it should be better.”
Arric and Serna exchanged a look. “All right,” Arric said. “If you really mean what you said, then come and do some leafleting round Torr tomorrow night. We’ll be meeting at the tenth bell in the small study hall at the technical school.” He sighed and shook his head. “Erani’s going to kill me.”
She didn’t, but she was furious to see Rugal again. Arric, however, stood his ground. “He wants to help. I don’t think we should stop him if he wants to help.”
“So he can take all our names back to his father’s friends?”
“They’ll have your names already,” Rugal said. “But they’ve probably got more important things to worry about right now than you.”
Erani glared at him. “You’re not winning me over.”
“I’m not trying to win you over. I’m trying to help with what you’re doing.”
She let him stay. Throughout the rest of the spring, he went down into Torr, helping put together their broadsheets, distributing them tirelessly around the blocks and tenements of Torr, quarreling over their contents in street-corner geleta houses and taverns. They got regular messages from Natima Lang—Rugal never quite worked out how these were getting through, and Erani wasn’t telling—and once there was even one from Tekeny Ghemor, wishing them well. They distributed these too, and they kept the message simple and clear. We want elections. We want Tekeny Ghemor.
Spring turned to summer. The temperature rose. People became angrier about the delay. Then someone put a flamethrower to a former Obsidian Order facility on the north edge of Torr, right where it adjoined the finance district. The next day, there were two constabulary officers for every ten people on the streets of Torr, and whenever they came across someone distributing broadsheets, they took the material away. That night, another former Order building went up in flames. The next day, the officers took away both the broadsheets and the people distributing them. On the third day, there was a sit-down in Torr Central Market to protest the arrests. The constables broke it up with hounds. After that, it was chaos. Within a week, there were parts of the western Torr sector where the constables didn’t dare go during the day. Other parts of the sector were more contested; there were running battles most nights.
Erani was so ecstatic she even spoke to Rugal unprompted. “This is what I wanted. Like your Resistance. This is what Cardassia needs. Not Declarations. Revolution.”
It was the end of Arric’s involvement. He had a mate and a small child, and he was getting afraid for them. Rugal went by the loft one day. “Get out of it,” Arric advised. “It’s going to explode soon. And when it does, and if you’re in the middle of it—don’t count on your father’s name to save you, Rugal.”
“The servants are getting restless,” Alon Ghemor remarked to Kotan one evening as they settled down in the private sauna of the Ghemor house. “And can we blame them?”
“I think there’s still time. If she’ll just back down a little...”
“Did you hear the news from Masad?” Alon said. “Students have been blocking the walkways in front of the office of the city’s archon. They’ve not administered any justice in three days. There’s a strike of transport workers in Lakarian City tomorrow, and I’m hearing rumors of a general strike...”
“She could ask Tekeny to return as a private citizen first. It will take the heat off her, buy her a little time...”
Alon sighed. “Someone has to speak to her.”
Kotan wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “I’ll go if you go.”
They made their appointment with Rejal for early the following morning. When they got to the sunroom by her private office, however, Kotan was surprised to see that she had convened a full meeting of the Five. Rhemet was there, Bamarek too—and also, standing at the head of the table behind Rejal’s chair, resplendent in full uniform, was Skrain Dukat. “Meya?” Alon said, puzzled. “I thought this was going to be a private meeting?”
“Unfortunately, events are running away with us.” She gestured to the two men to sit down. “I have information�
�—she glanced back briefly at Dukat—“that the city is facing a very real and serious threat. I’m only sorry I didn’t hear this from your people, Alon,” she added. “I know you’re loyal to your uncle, but I didn’t think you would put personal animosity above the security of the Cardassian state and the safety of its people.”
“What?” Alon gaped at her. “Meya, what are you talking about?”
She looked down at the padds on her desk rather than at him. “There is going to be a rally in the Torr sector this evening. Upward of twenty thousand people. It’s expected to be the signal for riots across twelve urban centers.”
“What are their demands?” Kotan said, although he thought he already knew.
“Elections. The immediate return of Tekeny Ghemor.” Meya looked at Alon as if he had wounded her physically. “Alon, I didn’t think you’d let me walk blindly into something like this.”
“I swear,” Alon said, “that this is the first that either I or the Bureau has heard of it.”
“Then you’re incompetent,” Dukat cut in. Meya raised her hand to stop him.
“Meya,” Kotan said. “You know what the way out of this is. Address the whole Union this morning, all channels, no exclusions. Say that you’re extending an invitation to Tekeny Ghemor to come home.” Dukat took a step forward. Kotan hurried on. “What purpose does their demonstration have then? You’ll have forestalled them—”
“They’re still calling for elections,” Dukat pointed out.
“So Meya will have responded to one of their demands, but not the substantive one. Meya,” Kotan spoke with soft urgency, “this could be your last chance. This morning—that’s all you’ve got. Get in touch with Tekeny’s people right now. Come up with a statement that saves face for both of you. Get him on the next transporter home. And when he arrives, be the first in line to shake his hand.”
Dukat intervened. “If you do that, you’re backing down to terrorists. They won’t stop here. Tomorrow there’ll be new demands. First, these elections, I should think. And then what? The right to assemble? The right to combine? I’d give Cardassia”—he snapped his fingers—“that long before she’s on her knees.”
Meya was sitting upright in her seat. She had not looked back at Dukat as he was speaking, and she had not jumped at the snap of his fingers. “My difficulty,” she said in a neutral voice, “is that I have no real means of preventing this action. Despite all the good work of Ithas and his people, the city constabulary is not in control of most of the western end of Torr. There is very little I can do to stop these people.”
Alon and Kotan looked at each other in disbelief. It was as if Kotan had not even spoken. “Meya,” Alon said, and she stopped him with one upraised palm.
“No!” she said. “I will not give in to the threat of violence. That is not the Cardassia that we want, Alon.”
Dukat put his hands flat on the table and leaned down to speak to her directly. “You don’t need the constabularies,” he said. “Not when you can rely on my support.”
There was a long pause. “Meya...” Bamarek said, uneasily.
“I can’t do that under the terms of the Declaration,” Meya said. “No return to martial law. Policing is entirely within the remit of the constabularies—”
“So appoint a special police force. Six units from the Third Battalion, Second Order will secure the Torr sector for you. What are you waiting for?”
“Meya,” Kotan said in horror. “Please!”
She got up from her seat. “We’re done here. Thank you for coming, gentlemen, and thank you for your advice. Dukat, stay.” She nodded to the rest of the Five. “For Cardassia,” she said, in dismissal. Kotan left reeling. The choice had been between Skrain Dukat and Tekeny Ghemor. How in the name of Tret Akleen had it turned out this way? Beside him, Alon Ghemor was shaking with anger. “I have done everything that woman has asked of me! I have gutted the Obsidian Order. I have purged the Bureau so thoroughly that there is scarcely an intelligence agency left. And then she has the nerve to accuse me of treachery?”
But Kotan was barely listening. He had to get a message to his son. Don’t go near Torr tonight.
Rugal found Erani and Tekis in the geleta house nearest the technical school. He told them what Kotan had said, but Erani wouldn’t listen. “I swear,” Rugal said, “something bad is going to happen tonight.”
Erani replied with scorn. “You only know this because your father told you. And you want me to listen to the advice of a member of a Detapa Council? They’re using you to spread panic among the movement! I don’t know whether you’re doing it on purpose and to be honest I don’t care. But I do know what the intention is, and I’m not going to fall for it.”
“It’s not like that! Kotan wouldn’t do that!” Rugal looked helplessly at Tekis. “Tell her, will you?”
Tekis shrugged. “What makes you think I don’t agree with her?” She finished her small cup of gelat, and they both got up and began to head outside. Rugal went after them. “I’m trying to help you! I’m trying to protect you!”
Erani turned on him. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled herself up close so that they were face-to-face. “I told you once already,” she hissed. “I don’t need your help. Now back off!”
“Sweetheart,” Tekis said, pulling her away. “It’s not worth it. Leave it. Rugal,” she said to him, “I’m sure you mean well. But you should go now. You’re not part of this. Go back to Coranum and leave us alone.”
Rugal watched helplessly as they went off down the walkway. It was late afternoon. Hardly any time left. But he couldn’t go back and leave them to their fate.
He went to see Arric and Serna. They were frightened too; they did not believe a rally this size was going to pass unchecked. The three of them sat with the lights dimmed in front of the loft’s main window, keeping watch over the west side of Torr. A little before eighth bell, crowds of people began to assemble outside the technical school. They were going to walk the length of Torr’s main street and assemble in the Central Market to listen to speakers call for elections. That would go on until eleventh bell, when they would disperse, back to their homes or to the geleta houses to carry on the conversation.
As the eighth bell sounded, Dukat’s special police units entered Torr. Like all urban centers on Cardassia, the sector built to house the service grades had only two exits. The special units rolled their armored vehicles into place, and then sealed off the exits behind them. Shortly before a third after eight, they stopped the rally and ordered those assembled to disperse. The order was rejected. The people of Torr asked to be allowed to pass and hold their meeting. The special units gave the warning twice more, and each time it was rejected. At a third after eight exactly, the units opened fire.
By the ninth bell, Rugal couldn’t bear it any longer. Leaving Arric and Serna to lock their door behind him, he went down into the fray. It was only two walkways from their tenement building to the geleta house where he had been that morning, but it took him nearly until the next bell, ducking between door fronts and keeping to the shadows.
As he had hoped, Erani and Tekis had taken cover there, but Tekis had been shot in the arm. Erani had bound it, but Tekis was sitting with her head in her hands. Rugal knelt down in front of her. “Can you walk? You can’t stay here. We’ve got to go.”
“Go where?” Erani said bitterly. “They’ve sealed off Torr.”
“I think I can get you out,” Rugal said.
“I keep telling you I don’t want your help!” Erani shot back. Tekis looked up. She was white-faced and scared. “Sweetheart, they’ll be looking for us. They won’t stop until they find us.”
“I’m sure I can get you out of Torr,” Rugal said. “It’s not about help, Erani. It’s about your options. I don’t think you want to go to a labor camp, and I don’t think you want to see Tekis in one. I’ll get you out of Torr, and then you’re on your own. Whatever network Lang’s operating, however you’ve been getting people offworld to her, now’s t
he time to take advantage of it yourselves.”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you—”
“Erani, please!” Tekis said.
Outside, sirens were wailing; there was screaming and disruptor fire, and the sky was ablaze. Inside, it was very quiet. Only the three of them, in the dark. Erani and Tekis sat hand in hand, with their foreheads leaning against each other. “All right,” Erani said at last, and grudgingly. “We’ll go with you. But no farther than the outskirts of Torr.”
They went by back streets and walkways, trying to keep to the dark and out of sight. By the eleventh bell, they got to the eastern checkpoint. “What’s your plan?” Erani whispered.
Rugal swallowed. “Follow me. Don’t say anything. Try to look rich and dazed.”
He made them dump their identity rods, but he kept his own. He led them right up to the checkpoint. Six armed officers trained their disruptors on them. Rugal waved his hands in the air. “Help!” he shouted. “Help! My name’s Pa’Dar! I’m the councilor’s son!”
The officers got them facedown on the ground. When ordered, Rugal offered his rod. Once his identity was confirmed, he tried to explain away his two companions. “These are my friends Lyset and Maris Khevet. We were down in the sector from Coranum meeting friends from the university for dinner. Then all this shooting started. Lyset got hit. They’ve both lost their identity rods. We just want to go home!”
There was some discussion among the officers and then, to Rugal’s frank astonishment, the barrier was lifted and they were let through. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to take the chance of locking up a councilor’s son. As they walked past the barrier and out onto the perimeter road, Erani hissed in his ear, “That was your plan?”
“I’m sorry it worked!”
“So you should be!”
They walked on for some time along the perimeter road, the red glare of Torr to the left, the empty expanse beyond the city limits to the right. Eventually, they left even Torr behind and began to walk around the edge of the Munda’ar sector. Its warehouses were hardly lit at this time of day, and they were plunged into almost total darkness. Night sounds were heightened: animal cries, the whir of aerial patrols passing overhead. It was strange, Rugal thought; they were still so close to the city, and yet the wilderness was only a step away.
Star Trek: DS9: The Never-Ending Sacrifice Page 11