Something occurred to Taran’atar then. “I noticed that you did not number your own world among those others.”
Akaar lifted a single ropy eyebrow. “Quite right. Capella has petitioned for Federation member status many times. But my countrymen are not yet ready, even after more than a century of civil war. They still have much to learn about the ways of peace.”
“Interesting. Until seven years ago, Bajor was in a permanent state of military occupation and guerrilla war. And yet the Federation has agreed to admit Bajor before Capella. Does this not anger you?”
Akaar’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Taran’atar wondered if he would have to defend himself. But the admiral never moved. “If Bajor becomes a productive Federation member, it will bode well for other candidate worlds that have known the scourge of war during living memory. I have faith that Bajor’s success will one day lead to the same for Capella. Perhaps not while I live. But someday.”
Faith again. Taran’atar was beginning to find the concept most vexing. “But is not faith required only when no other factual basis exists for believing in a thing?”
Akaar downed the remainder of the contents of his glass, then fixed a steely eye on Taran’atar. “Precisely. Because we cannot know in advance what will happen, no matter how much we prepare. Consider Bajor again. There are some who believe that the Bajorans should not enter the Federation until after they make peace with their old enemies, the Cardassians, on their own. But there are many more who believe that Bajor is ready for membership now, and that peace with Cardassia will flow inevitably from her Federation allegiance. Both sides, however, are acting on faith.”
Taran’atar found that his own curiosity had been piqued. “On which side have you placed your faith, Admiral?”
An enigmatic smile slowly spread across Akaar’s face. “It is not my nature to advocate waiting over action. I believe Bajor to be more than ready for Federation membership, just as she is today. But no Capellan who hopes to live as long as I have believes that peace can ever be inevitable.”
This last was the first straightforwardly sensible thing Taran’atar had heard the admiral say so far. And he also intuited that it gave him an opening to ask another question that had begun nagging at him.
“Why did you not ask me how many humans I slew during the war?” Taran’atar said quietly.
Akaar’s expression suddenly grew dark, and Vic once again appeared worried. “Maybe we ought to steer clear of politics for the rest of the afternoon,” the holographic host said.
Taran’atar wondered with some dismay whether he had once again trodden across one of the Alpha Quadrant’s many indefinable social taboos. These humanoids seemed to hide them everywhere, like subspace antipersonnel mines.
He decided he could lose little by pressing on. “Perhaps it will ease your mind to know that I never entered the Alpha Quadrant during the war. I never fought against the Federation or its allies.”
Akaar’s glower was slowly replaced by a more thoughtful expression. He nodded. “Perhaps it will at that.” Then, setting his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, the fleet admiral made ready to leave.
Taran’atar perceived that an important opportunity was about to be lost forever. “May I ask you one final question, Admiral?”
Akaar paused, then assented with a sober nod.
“Would you have been as sanguine about my mission of peace had I slain many thousands of your people during the war?”
The question appeared to surprise the iron-haired Capellan. For a protracted moment he grappled with it. At length, he said, “I do not know for certain. But I have faith. Therefore I do not need to know for certain.” And with that, Akaar bid adieu to both Vic and Taran’atar and was gone.
The Jem’Hadar stood mutely beside the crooner, who finally broke the contemplative silence by saying, “I hope that helped clear things up for you.”
“I’m not sure,” Taran’atar said.
“Have a seat, then, while you think about it. And let me order you something. Quark says you’ve got a soft spot for root beer floats.”
Taran’atar favored Vic with an earnest nod. “He is correct.” And talkative.
Returning the nod, Vic approached one of the cocktail waitresses, then paused to speak over his shoulder to Taran’atar. “Oh, by the way—sorry I accused you of being about to trash my lounge the way Worf did.”
“Perhaps,” Taran’atar said, “you should place more faith in people.”
12
Gul Macet had piloted the shuttle from the Trager himself, aided by Norit, his most trusted young officer. Macet wasn’t sure why he felt the need to flex his piloting muscles. Was it a desire to keep them sharp, or to show off a bit for Vedek Yevir’s benefit? He suspected it was a bit of both.
He landed the shuttle in an open area amid the ruins of Lakarian City, near the coast of Cardassia Prime’s largest continent, South Forbella. Dusk was approaching, and the descending sun cast long shadows across a horizon-to-horizon expanse of dusty wreckage. The city had once been numbered among the planet’s most treasured leisure spots, boasting everything from fanciful entertainments for children to pleasures of a decidedly more adult nature. Their landing zone lay in the ruins of a wide section of what had once been Krendalee, a large amusement park, before it—and most of Lakarian City—had been razed during the waning hours of the Dominion War. Because of the resource allocation decisions of Cardassia’s provisional leadership, reconstruction of the city had not yet begun. Macet felt that this was a grave mistake. Cardassia’s demoralized billions had become accustomed to living well prior to the coming of the Dominion; now more than ever, they needed the fantastical escape that Lakarian City represented.
Macet stepped out of the shuttle, followed by Norit, Yevir, and a pair of armed guards. The two protectors spread out, weapons drawn as they scouted the immediate area. Scans taken from orbit had shown seven Cardassian life signs in the area—which added up to two more than Cleric Ekosha had said would be in her party. Macet had his own suspicions regarding the identity of one of the surplus individuals, though the other remained a mystery.
Yevir wrinkled his nose further, his ridges collapsing in on themselves like a fan. “The air here is…acrid,” he said.
“It’s the smell of trandagh in the morning,” Macet said, inhaling deeply. “Mixed, I suspect, with fallout composed mainly of pulverized buildingstone.” They walked in silence through the rubble field for several moments before Macet continued. “I expect, Vedek Yevir, that many of your people would regard this tableau as a fitting recompense for the Occupation. After the Dominion War, it seems that we have been reduced to a far more abject level than even occupied Bajor experienced.”
“You are certainly entitled to that opinion, Gul Macet,” Yevir replied, his tone sharp enough to tell Macet that he had struck a sore spot.
“Please forgive me,” Macet said quietly. “I didn’t mean to trivialize the suffering we visited upon your people.”
Yevir studied him for a moment, then nodded his acceptance of Macet’s apology.
“Sir, six life signs approaching,” Norit said, her portable scanner in her hand. She pointed toward a building—a theater of some kind—whose façade was scorched and crumbled. From the shadows to its side, a group of Cardassians approached them, led by a tall woman. She was regal, dressed in brocaded robes, her hair pulled back behind her head and then braided to cascade down her shoulders. Behind her were several men and women, each of them dressed in more utilitarian garb. Macet guessed that their pockets contained a multitude of small weapons, mostly of the edged, non-energy variety. One of the women was shorter and older than the rest; next to her was a fresh-faced lad who was still in his teens.
“Welcome to Lakarian City. Or what’s left of it,” the lead woman said sardonically. “You are Gul Macet.”
Macet nodded his head slightly, then gestured toward the Bajoran beside him. “This is Vedek Yevir Linjarin.” Pointing to his assistant, he i
ntroduced her as well. He waved his hand toward the rubble. “My other two men are scouting for any potentially threatening interlopers. You said there would be five in your party, and yet there are six?”
“My apologies, Macet,” the woman said. She pointed to the boy, who Macet saw was gaping at him, his mouth forming a perfect O of incredulity. “When the young man heard that you were coming, he insisted on coming with us. He also said he’d always wanted to see Krendalee. Unfortunately, his father never managed to find the time to bring him here.”
Something about the boy struck Macet as familiar. Something about the eyes, the forehead ridges. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Well, it’s not much to look at now, is it?” he said to the lad.
The boy spat at him, the expectoration landing in the dust at Macet’s feet. Then he turned and ran, heading toward a nearby copse of dead, shattered trees.
Macet smirked, then addressed the stout older woman who had been standing with the boy. “Well, that’s a reaction I’ve gotten used to from Bajorans, but I rarely receive it from my own countrymen. Do you care to explain, Cleric Ekosha?”
The older woman looked surprised, and the taller woman began to speak, but she hadn’t uttered more than a few syllables before the matron silenced her with a swift hand signal.
“How did you recognize me? We’ve never met.”
“Years of military duty,” Macet said. “And with all the clandestine skullduggery that’s gone on during the last two wars…Let’s just say I know a decoy when I see one, Ekosha.” He nodded toward Yevir. “Now that we’re all here, and have gotten the introductions out of the way, shall we get on with our business? Time is short. If we hope to bring our plan to fruition, we will have to move quickly.”
The old woman nodded, and her decoy stepped back into the pack. “When you first contacted me, Macet, I was suspicious. The Oralian Way has been underground for so very long. Years of religious persecution against those who revere Oralius, and the First Hebitian Civilization of Cardassia, have made us all quite wary about whom we will agree to speak with candidly.”
“My understanding is that the Oralian Way was legitimized recently,” Yevir said.
A rueful smile spread across Ekosha’s lined face.“There is a huge difference between legitimizing a religion and accepting it. Yes, it is no longer against Cardassian law to be an Oralian, but that does not mean that we are welcomed, or even tolerated. Even as our society rebuilds itself, the old-guard Cardassians—career politicians and military authorities, mainly—still take it upon themselves to try to keep us fearful and fragmented. Many of our churches have been mysteriously burned, and several of our more outspoken leaders have been beaten or have even disappeared in the dead of night. We decided to go underground again. Before we run out of martyrs to canonize.”
“I assure you that our intentions here are far nobler than that, Cleric,” Macet said, hoping she would believe him. If not, this entire venture would prove a colossal waste of time and effort.
“If I didn’t already believe that on some level, Macet, I never would have agreed to meet with you,” Ekosha said.
“Macet arranged this meeting at my request,” Yevir said, stepping forward. “I am deeply troubled by the diplomatic impasse that now exists between Bajor and Cardassia. For both our planets to heal themselves, we need to let the oldest wounds heal first.”
“I suspect those wounds will leave some rather livid scars,” Ekosha said with a tiny sardonic smile.
“I suspect you’re right,” Yevir said, apparently unfazed by Ekosha’s interruption. “Nevertheless, Bajor enters the Federation tomorrow. If we can establish peace between our two peoples now—before the Federation takes such matters out of our hands—think of the good it will accomplish. For both our peoples.”
“And what of the benefits such a breakthrough would bring to both of you?” Ekosha asked, her eyes darting from Yevir to Macet and back again. “You want to be kai of Bajor, and if what I’ve heard is true, you’re willing to suppress an offshoot religion if it helps you achieve that. Macet wants respect, and to finally emerge from the shadow of a man whom all of Bajor hates. Not to mention many Cardassians who haven’t forgotten who began our world’s slide into destruction.”
Several troubling questions percolated up from the depths of Macet’s soul at that moment. Is she right? Have Yevir and I flattered ourselves into believing that we’ve come to forge peace between our respective worlds? Or has this all been an exercise in self-aggrandizement for us both?
Yevir appeared to be grappling with similar notions. But unlike Macet, Yevir seemed to have a ready answer. “I swear to you, Cleric Ekosha, without reservation, without doubt, that I am acting solely in the interests of my people. To do that, I must also act in the best interests of yours.”
Then Yevir did something that Macet didn’t expect. Very deliberately, he removed his Bajoran earring and tossed it to the ground. Then he began stripping off his heavy clerical robes, setting them atop the earring in a careless pile. He stood in a plain white tunic and trousers, bereft of any badge of office. But what he had shed in clothing he more than made up for in simple dignity and courage. Until this moment, Macet had not been at all certain that Yevir possessed any such qualities.
“I don’t deny that I might benefit personally from a last-minute rapprochement between Bajor and Cardassia. If the price of such a peace is that I throw all of that aside, then I will gladly do it.
“I come among you not as a candidate for kai, nor as a representative of any religion. I am here with one agenda only: to bring our peoples together without any force or coercion—even the benevolent kind that the Federation would surely bring.
“I ask only that you do the same thing. Forget about whether or not the Oralians will profit from emerging from your bunkers. Think instead about what’s best for your people. You know as well as I do that without a just peace—arrived at freely—there will be war again between Bajor and Cardassia someday. If our two civilizations cannot reach out to one another without outside help, then old slights and injustices will fester on both sides. We can lance those boils and bring about a healing. But only if we act together now.”
Yevir extended his hand toward the stout woman, who looked at it as though it might turn into a poisonous reptile at any moment. Macet had the sudden sense that the entire axis of history was revolving around this place and time. And that Yevir’s words were absolutely right, whatever doubts Macet still harbored about his own motivations.
Macet felt a stab of regret at the sharp words he had hurled at Colonel Kira when he had confronted her about the intransigence of her world’s political leaders. A remarkable people, these Bajorans.
Yevir’s words had evidently struck a sonorous chord within the Oralian cleric. Ekosha extended both her hands and grasped Yevir’s between them. “I am not so old as to imagine that even a masterstroke of peace will suddenly gain the Oralian Way the respect that is its due. Nor am I still so in love with living for its own sake that I am willing to hide underground forever.”
Macet tried to put aside the jubilation that swelled within his chest. Like the master kotra player he was, he tried to anticipate the next move the fragile new alliance ought to make. But all he could come up with was yet another unsettling question, one that he didn’t hesitate to ask aloud: “How do we broker a peace agreement when even our most accomplished diplomats have failed?”
Yevir answered without hesitation, a serene smile on his lips. “The Prophets will provide, Gul Macet.”
“I think I may have a suggestion.” A voice called out from the shadows surrounding a nearby pile of rubble. Sliding smoothly from the darkness was a middle-aged Cardassian man, his body lean and whip-strong, his black hair slicked back.
With wide eyes and a friendly demeanor, the man stepped toward Yevir and Macet. He extended his hand in an attempt to shake theirs. Macet knew that the newcomer had picked up the custom during the long years he had spent living among huma
ns and Bajorans.
He greeted Macet first. “Gul Macet, always a pleasure. You’re looking fit. And familiar. By the way, that boy with the atrocious manners is called Mekor. One of the children of Skrain Dukat. I believe he may have been expressing his sincere regret that his late father never found the time to take him here while the amusement park was still in operation.”
The new arrival turned next to the half-dressed Bajoran. “Vedek Yevir, how good it is to finally meet you after having read so much about you. I must confess that I never expected to see a member of the Bajoran clergy in such a state of dishabille. At least, not since I left the haberdasher’s trade. My name is Elim Garak. And I believe I may have the solution to our mutual problem.”
13
“Evasive maneuvers!” Vaughn shouted just before the Nyazen flotilla opened fire.
But there were simply too many of them. The first salvo rocked the Defiant hard, and Vaughn gripped the arms of his command chair as the bridge pitched forward and the red emergency lights came on. T’rb sprawled headlong onto the deck, but regained his footing a moment later, evidently not seriously hurt.
“Bowers, engage cloaking device!” Vaughn said, loath to play this card so early in the game but seeing no viable alternative.
Bowers quickly entered one command, then another. He shook his head and regarded Vaughn grimly. “Cloak’s off-line, Captain. Return fire?”
“Starting a war isn’t one of our mission objectives, Lieutenant.” Vaughn said with a stony scowl.
“Shields are down to forty-two percent,” Bowers reported.
Shar righted his capsized chair and returned to his console. “All thirteen ships fired on us simultaneously with something resembling a compression disruptor,” he said.
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