On the seventh day, when they stopped to rest, Rugal scrabbled around in their packs for some ration bars. He held one out to Tret. Tret didn’t take it. He remained lying on the ground, very still. Rugal knelt down beside him and touched his cheek.
He was dead, of course, like everyone else. Very gently, Rugal closed his eyes for him. He rearranged the young man’s limbs so that he was lying peacefully, with his left hand resting on his chest. He looked appallingly young, and damaged, wrecked by cold and pain. Already the snow was coating his body, as if trying to make it seem that Tret’s death—and his life—had never happened. Rugal tried brushing it away, but the snow was falling more quickly than he could clear it. Abandoning the attempt, he took off his service medal and carefully put it into Tret’s hand, like a charm to ward off oblivion. For Cardassia, he thought, looking down at his friend. Cardassia’s son. Cardassia’s sacrifice. Would anyone remember? Would anyone care? Everyone had gone mad. Everyone was dead.
Rugal stood up, dusting away the flakes of snow that had been accumulating on him as he said good-bye. Around him, everything had fallen silent, beyond comfort or reproach. He picked up his pack, Tret’s too, and he walked on into the void.
PART THREE
RETURN TO GRACE (2376–2378)
“Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die. And it is youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow, and the triumphs that are the aftermath of war.”
—Herbert Hoover
Nine
One bright day twelve weeks after the war had ended, Ellen Smith and her three-person crew docked their ship, the Lotos, at the main spaceport on Weibak IV. Ellen left the others to get on with the routine business of gathering news and supplies, and went to her meeting with the colony’s provisional governor. An antiquated skimmer was waiting to collect her—that level of organization spoke volumes about the relative ease with which Weibak had come through the war—and Ellen was taken in modest style out to March, the small town that served the spaceport. A rural world, a sunny day—you could almost convince yourself the war had never happened.
This part of the quadrant had been Cardassian space, although in recent years the Cardassians hadn’t been able to run a blockade, never mind the Union. The Maquis had done well out here, until the Jem’Hadar arrived, whereupon colony worlds that had effectively become independent once again found themselves under centralized rule: the Dominion’s. The Maquis was obliterated. But now the Dominion had surrendered, and the Cardassians were ruined, and all the quadrant’s great powers were staggering. And on a small green world in what was now a Federation-protected system, Ellen Smith was going to see the governor and she was authorized to speak on the Federation’s behalf. It all seemed a little crazy to Ellen, but these were difficult times. The quadrant’s strained governments had to make use of whatever resources there were at hand.
The Lotos had been doing supply runs in these systems for nearly twenty years. When they went Cardassian, the crew kept their heads down and tried not to look like Maquis. Which they weren’t—Ellen wouldn’t carry weapons—but for the settlers out here, abandoned by the Federation, it was good enough to be a friendly, non-Cardassian face. They had always been made welcome out in these colonies, and that hadn’t changed after the war, when people were desperate for some news of their fate. So they were now part of a Federation protectorate. But what did that mean? Had they escaped Cardassian rule for good? Or was this only a temporary respite? On some worlds, all people wanted was news, an idea of how they were still connected to the wider quadrant. On other worlds, the situation was considerably more complicated, and considerably less stable, than it was here on Weibak.
Hundreds of ships like the Lotos had been making a living out here before the war. Twelve weeks after, they were what passed for infrastructure. Headquarters Allied Reconstruction Forces were far away on Cardassia Prime, so Ellen had contacted the people at HARF to ask: What can we do? The reply had been: Get out there. Find out where we need to be and what we need to do. She had been happy to help. Nobody in their right mind wanted to see these worlds collapse. Besides, it was a nice salary coming from HARF, and they weren’t paying in leks.
March bore few marks of the war. It was summer, the grass was green, kids were running about the small streets, looking safe and happy. Everyone seemed pretty cheerful—as you might if you had suddenly ceased to be a Cardassian citizen and were once again living under Federation jurisdiction. Ordinary people were going about their everyday business, talking and laughing in the sunshine. Ellen saw no Cardassians. There had been hardly any Cardassians on Weibak; they had not had the chance to return before the war had diverted resources—and bodies—away from their resettlement program. A quirk of fate, a small decision taken in a backroom office somewhere on Cardassia Prime, and the Jem’Hadar had never come to trouble the good people of Weibak.
Ellen wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Three weeks ago, the Lotos had been on Sea Fall. The Cardassians had gone back there after joining the Dominion, and they had brought the Jem’Hadar with them. There were no Cardassians on Sea Fall these days, and the surviving humans had a haunted look, as if they had seen things nobody should ever see. Ellen never wanted to visit a place like it again, though she almost certainly would over the coming months.
The skimmer decelerated with aplomb outside a small one-story building unassumingly proclaiming itself the governor’s office. Ellen was scooped up at once into the care of a brisk and nice young man who introduced himself as the governor’s assistant. “Welcome to Weibak, Captain. How was your journey?”
“Fine. A few problems in Calphan space—they’ve been flooded with refugees.”
He looked surprised. It’s bad out there, kiddo, Ellen thought. The sun isn’t shining everywhere, you know. “Oh yes?” he said. “Where from?”
“The next system along has been put under Romulan jurisdiction. People aren’t so keen on being under Romulan protection, so they’re taking the quickest route into Federation-administered space. I’d probably do the same myself, but the ships they’re coming in are held together by string and rust. They’re easy prey, and they’re attracting predators.” Ellen had sent a full report back to HARF, but who knew when resources would be available to patrol out that far. “They’ve got next to nothing. But someone still wants it.”
They had reached the door of the governor’s office. The young man held it open for her. He was obviously troubled. “I think we don’t know how lucky we’ve been here.”
Ellen felt a brief pang of guilt. Why shouldn’t Weibak have come through just fine? Why shouldn’t this perfectly pleasant young man get up on a summer’s morning, stroll to work, and chat with a passing visitor? It was better than the alternative. “Places like Weibak are all that’s holding this together,” she said. “Seriously. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing a great job.”
Maria Alvarez, the newly appointed transitional governor, had until recently been running the customs and excise office. She and Ellen went back at least fifteen years. As they sat down to a good lunch with a pleasingly home-cooked flavor, Ellen mocked Maria’s new office. Alvarez took it in good humor, and in return, and in cheerfully lurid fashion, she painted a picture of Weibak as being in the direst of straits, only salvageable by a huge injection of Federation resources. Ellen explained exactly how and why this wasn’t going to happen. When Alvarez, still amiable, abandoned the attempt, Ellen promptly went on the offensive, and by the time they had started on the fresh fruit, she was telling Alvarez that the civic-minded thing to do right now was send some of Weibak’s surplus out to Calphan space.
“What the people of these systems need to do,” Ellen said sententiously, “is help each other and look after each other.”
God, she was starting to sound like Starfleet now. Alvarez snorted. “Give me a break, Ellen. I’ll do it, but I want one thing made clear.” Here came the price tag. “When the lines are finally drawn around the quadrant, I hope the
Federation will remember exactly how civic-minded the people of Weibak have been.”
Fair enough. Ten years ago, the people here had been traded off in a treaty. They had turned to the Maquis for protection, and then faced the threat of Cardassian and Dominion invasion. It was a small world with no leverage in galactic politics, and this would surely be the only moment in its history when it had something the Federation wanted. Who could blame Alvarez for wanting to deal? Ellen couldn’t promise that when the postwar shakedown was finished, these people would finally and unequivocally be recognized as Federation citizens. But she would do all she could. “Maria,” Ellen said, as they shook hands across the table, “you’ll get your reward in heaven.”
Alvarez became more serious. “Where next, Ellen?”
“Mesquad, first. Then on to Hewe, and after that Slokat. I’m aiming to be on Ithic by the end of the year.”
“You know that the Maquis were massacred on Hewe?”
“We’d heard.”
“I’ve no idea what happened to the general population.”
“Based on what I’ve heard from other ships”—and what Ellen had seen with her own eyes—“the Dominion seems to have preferred to intern the non-Cardassian populations. Unless the locals deluded themselves into thinking they could resist the Jem’Hadar.”
Then you got what had happened on Sea Fall. Alvarez shuddered. “I’ll say this to you now, but I can’t believe how lucky we’ve been here.”
“And I’ll say it again, and from my heart, that if these systems don’t pull together right now, we’re all going under by the end of next year. Don’t forget your neighbors, Maria. If only because they’ll be looking at you and wondering if it’s fair Weibak got off so lightly, and why they shouldn’t simply come and get some of what you have.”
After the meeting broke up, Ellen went back to the spaceport in the ancient skimmer that had brought her over. She sat in the back, clutching a bag of peaches Alvarez had given her, and fretting about whether she had done enough and if she had been right to leave on that note of warning. She wasn’t a politician, not even a local politician. She moved cargo and news around. But she meant what she had said, and she knew that reconstruction depended on what people like Alvarez chose to do now. Sheer good luck had left Weibak in good shape. But if a handful of the weaker colonies collapsed, if the influx from the Romulan protectorates increased, it wouldn’t be long before refugees started arriving here. Weibak might be safe right now, but it was a long way out. It wouldn’t take much pressure to push it toward collapse.
Back at the ship, Ellen saw Roche and Joseph by the cargo bay door. She put Weibak and her worries behind her, and shouted, triumphantly, “Peaches!” holding up the bag like she was Perseus and it was the Gorgon’s head. And then the Cardassian walked up to her and asked if he could join her crew.
“No,” said Roche fiercely. “Absolutely not. Under any circumstances.” Roche was what passed for the engineer on the Lotos, and he was more Bajoran than the kai. His parents had fled the Occupation before he had been born, and he felt in some obscure way that he had been cheated out of his birthright. Sometimes it was a pain in the neck. Like now.
Ellen glanced over to where the Cardassian was waiting for her to come back with her answer. He was a young man with a big pack, and he looked tired. It had been a tiring war. What had he done during it? Was he soldier, settler, refugee? “He says he has to get to Ithic. We’re the first ship he’s come across that’s going that way.”
“It’s a long way to Ithic,” Jen said. “What’s he going to do there?”
“Probably planning to invade it,” Roche muttered.
“He says he’s trying to find someone he knew.”
“His problem. Ellen, please—not a Cardassian.”
“For once, I’m with Roche,” Joseph said. “Probably more trouble than it’s worth.” Jen nodded her agreement. Sweetly, Ellen added, “He also says that he’s a medic.”
There was a pause. Even Roche could see how that might be useful. Then the Cardassian spoke. He must have got fed up watching them argue and decided to make his own case. “I was working at a free hospital in Cardassia City when the war broke out.”
Roche looked at him coldly. “And after the war broke out? What did you do then?”
“For a while, I killed Romulans. Then I stopped. Why, what did you do?”
A soldier, then. Whereas Roche, like Ellen and Jen and Joseph, had wisely spent the whole time safely within allied-controlled space. It was best to leave that kind of thing to professionals. Roche turned back to Ellen. “I don’t care if the Prophets have given him healing hands. I don’t want a Cardassian around. Ellen, most of the worlds we’re going to are full of people than have suffered at the hands of his kind, really suffered. They’re not going to trust us with one of them on board. You know what they’re like—”
“Stop before you say something we’ll all regret,” Joseph murmured, but too late. That had clinched it for Ellen. She had nothing against this Cardassian, but she could see how his presence might be more trouble than it was worth, and she would have been content with whatever decision the others made. But Roche had overstepped the mark. What did he know about Cardassians, really? He had probably never even talked to one.
“There are Cardassians on most of those worlds too, Roche,” she said hotly. “And part of what we’re supposed to be doing is making sure the two populations aren’t warming up to killing each other. Do you think a Cardassian might be useful in those cases? Medically trained or not?”
“I only want to get to Ithic,” the Cardassian said quietly. “I’ll keep out of your way. I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want any trouble. Lock me in my quarters if you don’t want anyone knowing I’m on board.”
Joseph laughed. “The Cardassian in the attic, eh? All right, let’s give it a go. A medic should come in handy.”
Roche wouldn’t be budged. Jen wasn’t keen either. “I say he comes,” Ellen said. “And I’m the captain. Casting vote.” She glanced at the Cardassian. “I’m Ellen. Welcome aboard.”
“I’m Rugal,” he replied. “You have an interesting take on the democratic process.”
The Lotos was en route to Mesquad within thirty hours. Rugal was glad to leave Weibak, where Cardassians had been thin on the ground and attracted all the wrong kind of attention. The ship’s captain, Ellen, went out of her way to make up for the lukewarm welcome from the rest of the crew. As she took him around the ship, she told him about the work they were doing for HARF. “The places we’re going to have been under Federation jurisdiction since the end of the war, but it’ll be months before they can get to some of the more distant worlds. They don’t have the people. So what happens in the meantime?” She opened a door, and they both peered into a small dark room. “Medical room. Bit small. Sorry about that. And about the boxes. We’ve still not unpacked some of them. Maybe you could take a look and see what’s there?”
“I will,” Rugal said.
“Great! Thanks! Anyway, all these people can’t be left to run out of food and power and so on. So that’s where ships like ours come in. We’re moving supplies around, making sure these places stay on their feet. Engine room that way. Roche is there a lot of the time.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
They went down a narrow passageway with doors on either side leading to more storerooms, crew cabins. “We check in, find out what they’re doing, we find out what we need, and we pass that information on to other ships in the area. If there’s a small problem, we try to sort it out. If there’s a big problem, we send for Starfleet.” She came to a halt outside the farthest door and spread her hand out dramatically across her chest. “We are the masters here.”
Rugal smiled. He gestured toward the door. “Is this my cabin?”
“What? Oh yes!” She opened up and let him in with ceremony, as if she were showing him to the best suite in the hotel. She went right in herself and looked around. “Ta da! All yours. Se
ttle in, come and get something to eat when you’re ready. Anything you need in the meantime, shout.”
“Thanks,” Rugal said. She went on to talk for a while about Mesquad, their next planetfall, and he started maneuvering her gently but firmly in the direction of the door. Finally, she left him in peace. He sat down with a sigh of relief. It had all been slightly exhausting and entirely unnecessary. He didn’t want to make friends. He wanted to get to Ithic as quickly as possible. Slowly, he took off his boots, and he lay down on the bunk and stared up at the wire mesh above. In recent weeks, Rugal had found himself paying close attention to the detail of his surroundings. He had counted a lot of tiles on walls and ceilings. Rivets were good too; anything would do as long as it stopped his mind wandering. Gaps in wire mesh would certainly do the trick...
After Tret Khevet died, it had taken Rugal another couple of weeks to escape Ogyas. He had walked on for several more days, pressing on beyond what had so recently been the front line. The first chance he got, he swapped his uniform for a Romulan one. It was only ever going to be effective at range, so he needed to avoid attention. But the movement of the Romulan infantry was in the opposite direction from the one he was taking. They were heading into the Cardassian territory from which he was trying to escape. Their advance was disorganized, the haphazard progress of a badly bruised army, but it was purposeful, and at some point someone was going to notice that this particular infantryman was not going the same way as everyone else. As soon as someone stopped him, they’d know he was Cardassian. Either they’d shoot him on the spot, or they’d realize he was a deserter, hand him back, and then he’d be shot. Neither fate particularly appealed. He had to get offworld.
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