by S. D. Perry
“There was a man in my sector who was a dissenter,” Kalisi whispered across the aisle. Kalisi Reyar was one of Miras’s closest friends. “I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“He was foolish to make his opinions known,” Miras whispered back.
Kalisi’s gaze flicked to the front of the room before she replied. The professor was wrangling with her console. “He couldn’t help himself. People with beliefs like that usually have a disorder that prevents them from understanding loyalty to anything but their own desires. A defect in their lateral cortex makes them abnormally egocentric, and the same disorder keeps them from having any impulse control. I learned about it in socio-deviance.”
Miras turned forward as an image on the teacher’s display lit up the darkened room. There was a long, slow pan of a massive pile of rubble, smoking composite materials spilling from the front of a large building. Soldiers in deflect suits were using displacers to shift through the wreckage.
“This ruined building is located at one of the older Cardassian settlements,” Professor Mendar explained. “You can see that it has sustained considerable damage in an attack by rebel Bajorans. Of course, the vast majority of Cardassian structures remain unharmed. But for the soldiers who were garrisoned in this building, for the men and women who worked here…”
Miras leaned toward Kalisi. “My cousin was stationed on Bajor for a little while, before being sent to the border colonies.”
“My father says the border colony skirmishes are a waste of Cardassia’s resources,” Kalisi said promptly. “We should be putting more focus on Bajor.”
Miras did not answer. Her own parents had often expressed the opposite belief. Many Cardassians had strong feelings about the conflict with the Federation over the border colonies, but Miras felt it wasn’t appropriate for a woman to make her political opinions known. Anyway, it was not the function of a scientist to question military affairs, only to answer the call for improved technologies, to better the Cardassian quality of life. She had often thought to herself that Kalisi was too outspoken for a woman, but she adored her friend just the same. Miras had no illusions about her own future—she would work at the ministry, part of a team developing agrochemicals, or studying soil–plant microbe interaction; she would marry and bear children, as expected by her family and by the Union, and while it was all quite dull, she supposed, she was content with her prospects. Kalisi, though, beautiful and ambitious, an engineer and a programmer…Miras couldn’t imagine such a plain, quiet life for someone like Kalisi.
“This is one of our most productive mining facilities on Bajor,” Professor Mendar went on, images of tunnels and rocks flashing up, a number of the soft-faced Bajorans moving carts of rough-hewn stone across the screen. Without ridges, their faces seemed vulnerable and bland, their coloring quite sickly. Not an attractive people. “We have found a dizzying array of geological resources on the planet, and our latest estimation suggests that through their acquisition, we will extend Cardassian mineral productivity for decades, perhaps centuries.”
The next image was of a crashed vehicle in a forest, a skimmer perhaps, its broken metal body half hidden by the deep green of the surrounding plants and trees. Miras felt a spark of real interest, looking at the tall woods, the lush undergrowth. She leaned back to her friend again. “This is giving me an idea for my thesis project.”
“Me, too.” Kalisi’s whisper was no less excited.
“Beyond the usefulness of the topsoil analysis, just think of all the undiscovered flora and fauna…” Miras marveled at the possibilities. Xenoecology was her current favorite “tangent,” a class that was also taught by Professor Mendar. “What would it be like to be part of a research team stationed on Bajor?”
“If I were to go, it would be to study how to make Cardassian weapons more effective there. I hear the climate is nearly intolerable.”
Miras started to reply, but the latest image on the teacher’s display caught her eye, and she gasped in horror.
Professor Mendar continued her narration. “I know that what you are seeing is very disturbing. But I think it’s important that you understand who will be the true beneficiaries of better Cardassian technology.”
Miras looked away. The picture was too much. Half-starved Cardassian children, their eyes hollow and black beneath their cranial ridges, stood miserably in a hut made of reeds. Their faces were smeared with reddish Bajoran soil, their black hair tangled, their clothing barely more than rags.
“These are the children of families who were once stationed on Bajor—families who were killed, or who simply disappeared. They have no place in Cardassian society now.”
“But where will they…what will they do?” Miras was so flustered that she spoke out of turn.
“Please raise your hand, Miss Vara. When they’re of age, they’ll be offered placement in the military, perhaps trained for some menial labor. They’ll be transported wherever the Union needs them most.”
Miras studied the hopeless, unsmiling faces. “But isn’t there something we can do for them now?”
There was a murmur of disapproval among some of the other students, and the instructor hesitated before speaking. “We can ensure that there are no more like them in the future.”
Miras wanted to say more, to plead their case, but she knew better. The integrity of the family structure was the very core of Cardassian society. To take on a child of another’s blood, to give them resources meant for one’s own children…It simply wasn’t done. In leaner times—and not so long ago—orphans had been cast into the streets to live like animals. Euthanasia, while not common, had neither been rare. It had only been in the past few generations that any subsidy had been made for them by the government. Orphans were better taken care of now than at any other point in Cardassian history, but it was still a sensitive topic. Seeing their small faces, though, she’d been unable to keep silent.
The film jumped to reveal another shot of the makeshift orphanage, and what Miras saw next disturbed her even more. This time, she remembered to raise her hand before asking. “Those alien children in the back of the room—are they also…?”
“Yes. The Bajoran insurgents are truly so ruthless that they will even kill their own kind, if they suspect that they might be assisting the Union. Those children are probably the sons and daughters of Bajorans who cooperated with the Cardassian government and were subsequently killed by heartless terrorists. We must understand that we are dealing with an enemy whose ideals are very different from our own. We must not make the mistake of trying to sympathize with their position, for the Bajorans are not like us.”
“Kalisi,” Miras whispered. “We have to focus our thesis projects on Bajor.”
Kalisi nodded vigorously. “I already know what mine will be,” she told her friend. “What do you think of ‘Weapons for Peace’ as a title?”
A look from Professor Mendar, and the two students fell silent, turning their attention back to the presentation.
As the class came to an end, Miras approached her professor eagerly, with Kalisi close behind her. “Professor Mendar, where can I find the latest datafiles from Bajor? Kalisi and I would like to research the annexation for our final thesis projects.”
“That is an excellent idea, ladies, but I’m afraid there is currently very little data available to the public. Study of Bajor is a relatively new pursuit, considering the growing pains that are still under way in winning the loyalty of the Bajorans. Most of what you will find is related to the geology of the planet. If you’ve anything else in mind, you might not have much to go on.”
Kalisi interrupted. “Is there anything comprehensive on Bajoran atmospheric peculiarities, as opposed to Cardassia Prime’s?”
The teacher looked doubtful. “You’re welcome to look at whatever the Ministry of Science has on file.”
Miras felt a spark of excitement. “Do you think we might contact the information correspondent who captured those images? Perhaps she might help us. If you�
��re at liberty to say her name, of course.”
The teacher nodded. “That information is indeed open to the public. The correspondent’s name is Natima Lang. Yes, I think you would be well-advised to speak to her. You’ll find her to be a very knowledgeable, accommodating, and patriotic woman.”
Natima Lang. Miras filed the name in her short-term memory, deciding she’d try to contact the woman right away. She’d been planning for some time to do her final project on aerobic soil processes in Cardassian sand clay, but the images of Bajor…She felt suddenly quite certain that her focus had to be on some aspect of Bajor. It was unlike her to make such impetuous decisions—that was more in Kalisi’s line—but she was clear in her mind, as though the decision had been made long ago.
“My children.” Kai Arin’s distinctive voice was edged with kindness that was comfortable but firm. His words rang gently through the Kendra Shrine, settled over the congregation like an embrace.
“I know that many of the faithful have come to believe that the Prophets have abandoned them. But I urge you to hear my words. The Prophets have a plan for Bajor. It is when things become most difficult that our faith must sustain us. You must follow the prophecies as laid out by our forebears. You must adhere to your D’jarras. Leave politics to those in the designated political realm. Continue to concentrate on your roles in society as individuals. It is through the D’jarras that the machinery of Bajoran life will continue to run smoothly, each Bajoran a crucial component of the whole. Unless every last component works together, the machine will break down, and Bajor will become dysfunctional, its societal inner workings broken beyond repair.”
The faithful murmured their approval, and Vedek Opaka Sulan, who stood at the door of the shrine with a ceremonial chime, murmured along with them, as she had through all the day’s services. But, try as she might to stifle it, her heart ached with doubt. She could not ignore the Cardassian soldiers who stood just beyond the door of the religious shrine, listening to the kai’s every word.
Arin was not the most popular kai in Bajor’s long and storied religious history; in fact, many Bajorans had refused to accept him when he took the position a few years after the formal occupation by the Cardassians, believing him to have been elected falsely under the alien regime. The church had been affected by numerous schisms at that time, and many Bajorans had simply abandoned formal religious services altogether, though most still believed in the Prophets. Arin often chose to address these concerns in his sermons, but his thinning congregation seemed only to grow thinner as time went by.
Opaka wanted to believe that there was true conviction behind the kai’s words; she had long felt that those who accused the kai of being a puppet for the Cardassians were simply weak of faith. Her personal thoughts on the matter had always been that the kai spoke from his own heart, that he genuinely believed in advocacy for the D’jarras. And yet, as time went by, Sulan could see more and more evidence that the D’jarras were hurting Bajor more than they were helping it. In the written words of the ancient ones, she found more and more references to the idea that the D’jarras were based solely on tradition rather than on actual prophecy. Yet she struggled, for she feared that she had simply fallen victim to the murmurings of the doubtful—although she considered herself a sensible person, not easily swayed by popular opinion. In many ways, she had never felt her faith tested so strongly as it was being tested now.
As the evening’s final service concluded, Opaka bid good-bye to the Bajoran worshipers as they filed out of the sanctuary, and then gathered together the ceremonial items to be put away in the reliquary. She turned to acknowledge her fifteen-year-old son Fasil, who waited for her in the pews, amusing himself by whittling on a bit of kindling he had picked out of the firewood. Opaka was exhausted—she had stayed awake too late the night before, studying prophecy—and she looked forward to joining her son for dinner in their small cottage, but her persistent unease remained. She had considered speaking to the kai about her concerns, but something held her back. She did not want him to perceive her questions as an accusation in any way, and she knew she must think carefully about how to approach him.
Someone spoke behind her. “Vedek Opaka, you seem troubled.”
She turned, still holding chimes and braziers. It was Gar Osen, an elder vedek who served as close counsel to the kai. She liked him well enough, though he had always seemed a bit reclusive to her. It was typical of him to ask after another’s concerns, but rare for him to share his own feelings.
“Thank you, Vedek Gar. I suppose I was just considering…” She hesitated, but Gar’s expression was so effectively compassionate that she decided to unburden herself of her thoughts. “In regard to the kai’s sermon today, I…confess I often wonder at the efficacy of the D’jarras in today’s world. I don’t mean to say that they should be abandoned, of course, but—” She paused, but Gar’s expression hadn’t changed, and she felt encouraged to continue.
“Perhaps the Prophets don’t always mean for us to passively wait for answers to fall to us,” she said. “Perhaps the Prophets expect us to find conviction within ourselves when things become difficult, to call upon our own individual strengths and weaknesses, and…perhaps a redefinition of the D’jarras is in order, considering the circumstances. I say this only because it seems that so many of the castes have become irrelevant in this new climate, and they serve to divide us, at a time when unity is so…imperative…”
She trailed off, fearing that she had said too much. Gar’s silence had finally unnerved her, and she waited for him to weigh in with an opinion of his own.
“Vedek Opaka, it seems you have given a lot of thought to this matter. Would you like it if I were to speak to the kai on your behalf?”
“Yes,” she told him, flooded with hope and relief. “You understand—I only want to open a dialogue. Perhaps the kai has something to say that will help me to better understand his approach.”
Vedek Gar nodded. “Perhaps he does, at that.”
He took Opaka’s left ear between his thumb and forefinger, and she closed her eyes as the energy of her pagh was revealed to him.
“Your pagh reflects deep sincerity, Vedek Opaka.” He bowed slightly, and left her.
Opaka bowed in turn, and went to put away the ceremonial items, pleased that she’d spoken after all.
The man’s name was Thill, Thill Revi, and he was as coarse and unappealing as most Bajorans. Natima could have interviewed him for the story over her office’s secure line, but there was also going to be a minor “summit” at the base where Thill was in protective custody, a conference of all the base commanders in the Rakantha province; the Information Service needed a representative there. Her supervisor hadn’t wanted to send her—the military base and the small Cardassian community it protected were near a heavily forested area in Rakantha, not a secure area in spite of the heavy concentration of soldiers there—but most of his male reporters were on assignment, and she was one of his best filters, fast and clean. He’d assigned her a recorder and a travel permit and told her not to linger.
As though I’m on vacation, she thought, looking into the narrow, damp face of Thill Revi as he studied her press badge. They sat in one of the base’s small meeting rooms, thankfully heated but otherwise unpleasant, bare, and ill-lit. Her “escort,” a base garresh, leaned against the far wall looking entirely bored. She was glad to be covering the conference; it would stream as a lead piece, worth the price of the last-minute travel, a cramped transport full of leering soldiers, a tight deadline…But another interview with one of them took some of the shine off.
Thill handed back her hardcopy pass, his expression too alien to understand. Suspicion? Anger? The Bajoran had graying hair and thin lines around his nose and mouth. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and nasal.
“You say you want to know about Mesto?” Thill asked. “Write a story about it?”
Natima nodded, and spoke with a patience she didn’t feel. “Produce it, actually. As I said wh
en I contacted you last week. I’m doing a piece about the Bajoran approval of Union annexation, focusing on men and women—like yourself—who’ve accepted our presence here, and have chosen to help us, in spite of the risks from Bajoran insurgents.”
Thill’s narrow face grew narrower. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “All I did was tell our town liaison about Mesto Drade. He told the commander here, and they arrested him.”
Natima checked the recorder, adjusted the angle slightly. “He’s your neighbor, is that correct?”
“Farm next to my outfit,” Thill said. His tone was sullen. “Don’t know that that makes him a neighbor.”
“Tell me how you found out what Mesto was doing,” Natima said. Usually such an open-ended invitation started them talking. Most of the Bajorans she’d interviewed were only too eager to explain themselves, to convince anyone who might listen that they weren’t really like the others, the collaborators.
Thill folded his arms. “You hear things. Drade, he thinks—he thought he was better than me. Farmer’s no better than craftsman, though, no matter what anyone says. We’re the same on the wheel.”
D’jarras, she thought. The caste system. She stifled her distaste at the ignorance of his beliefs, reminding herself that he’d been raised into his cultural superstitions; it wasn’t his fault. “Mesto was hiding the parts of a nearly complete warp reactor in his barn, along with stockpiles of chemical explosives. Your decision to turn him in probably saved lives.”
Thill looked sour. “Ruined mine, though, didn’t it? It’s not just the rebels, you know. None of them—my ‘neighbors’—none of them ever treated me real good. My family D’jarra, Ke’lora, is low on the wheel, see? I’m a tanner, come from a long line of tanners. It’s a respectable position, you know, working the skins. ‘And as the tradesman plies his wares, so the tanner scrapes the hides, so the ranjen studies the Word.’ That’s a direct quote from the Book of Seasons, isn’t it? But all those high-caste types, they don’t want to shake hands with someone like me. Same with my da, an’ his da before him. Good men, treated poor.”