Terran Calendar)
Nerys was crying as she made her way to the shrine nearest to her father’s house, and she wiped her eyes with shame. She was no longer a child, she was ten years old, and there was no excuse for tears-not even after what had happened. Some people had to endure worse, much worse. And anyway, why should she cry when the Cardassians had let her go? She was safe, she could go back home to her father and her brothers-but that was just it, wasn’t it? She was safe, but Petra Chan wasn’t.
Nerys entered the shrine, looking hopefully for Prylar Istani. Her brothers and her uncle and cousins had all just dismissed her tears. They told her to stop behaving like this when really they should all just be grateful that they were together, while her father had been sympathetic but strangely distant. Nerys couldn’t forget the look on Chan’s face when the Cardassians had taken her away. How could she ever forget such a thing? It positively haunted her, and though she’d always lived with the aliens’ presence, had even encountered a few very unpleasant soldiers in her short life, the day that they had come to Dahkur and taken away a dozen teenage girls in the village was perhaps the most stark and terrifying event Nerys had ever witnessed.
Nerys did not encounter Prylar Istani right away; instead, she found Vedek Porta tending the shrine. She tried not to let disappointment show in her voice when she greeted him, for though she respected the old man, she certainly could not speak to him about what had happened-and how she felt about it.
“Nerys, I’d take it you’re looking for Istani Reyla,” Vedek Porta said knowingly.
“Oh…” Nerys began, not wishing to be unkind, but the old priest merely inclined his head and went for the vestibule at the back of the shrine, where he soon emerged with Prylar Istani, dressed in her traditional orange robes. Vedek Porta left them alone, and Istani stretched out her arms.
“Nerys!” the kind-faced woman greeted her. “You’ve been crying. Come. Sit with me and tell me what troubles you.”
Nerys sat gratefully on the bare floor facing the woman who had been a friend to the Kira family since before Nerys was born. Nerys felt as though she could confide almost anything to Istani, who always listened without judging-unlike her brothers-and with the feminine understanding that Nerys’s father seemed unable to grasp.
“It’s just… the other day, when the Cardassians came…”
Istani’s face darkened, and she squeezed Nerys’s hand. “Yes, Nerys. It was a terrible day.”
“But… why? What did they want with those girls?”
The prylar’s voice was soft with hesitation, and Nerys had the impression that she was concealing something from her. “Perhaps… they wanted younger girls, so that they can begin training them for a particular job that is easier learned in one’s youth…”
“I told them,” Nerys sniffled, “when they came to the center of town and began to select girls from the crowd, I shouted that they should choose me instead of Petra Chan…” Nerys began almost to sob now, for she missed her friend, the teenage girl who’d been like a mentor and older sister, and Nerys feared terribly for her safety. “But… but…,” she continued, “they said I was too young, and too scrawny… and Petra Chan isn’t even that much older than me… and she’s thinner than I am!”
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“Nerys,” Istani said, her voice soothing, “the Prophets will look after Petra Chan now, and you must thank Them for Their blessings. You and your family have always had plenty to eat, and you are together-“
“Not my mother,” Kira pointed out, aware that she was being, as her brothers often accused her, a pessimist, only seeing the negative side of things. Of course she should be counting her blessings for having avoided whatever fate had befallen those teenage girls. She should be relieved that the Cardassians took Chan instead of her, but she didn’t feel lucky or blessed-she felt guilty and angry.
“Nerys, my child,” Istani crooned, reading the tortured agony in Nerys’s face, “you will have to come to terms with your anger. We all suffer-it is part of the cycle of life. But it pleases the Prophets when Their children can transcend a life mired in misery, even in these… conditions.”
Nerys said nothing for a moment, only finished having her cry, and then caught her breath, her head now resting on the prylar’s shoulder. She thought, but did not say aloud, that if there were some way she could fight back, even a small way, if there were some way of surpassing these feelings of complete helplessness, maybe she could finally come to terms with how unhappy she felt. Maybe she could finally begin to achieve the peace she craved, the peace she knew the Prophets wanted her to have. But what could she do, as a ten-year-old girl?
Sitting there in the shrine, the last of her sobs calming themselves in her chest, she made a silent vow. She made it for her mother, and for Petra Chan, and for everyone else she knew who had been taken away or who had died. And mostly, she made it for herself; for the child who had never experienced childhood.
Dukat scowled when he received the call from ops; he didn’t care for the way the new glinn in security delivered his messages. The manner in which the soldier bit off the ends of his words irritated Dukat, and he disliked that the man insisted on being referred to by his given name. The prefect had initially refused, but since nearly everyone else on the station had fallen into the habit, Dukat would maddeningly find himself referring to the soldier as just “Thrax.”
Too many eccentricities, Dukat decided, and he’s too remote. Still, those are hardly actionable offenses.
The comm signaled again. Dukat sighed. “What is it, Thrax?”
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“You asked to be informed when Gul Darhe’el’s transport was on approach. It will dock in ten metrics.”
“Ah, yes,” Dukat said, smirking as he considered the conversation that was about to take place. “At last he graces us with his presence. Have an honor guard meet him at the airlock. See that he is escorted directly to my office.”
“Acknowledged.”
It was not long before Dukat’s office doors parted, and the dour-faced Darhe’el crossed the threshold, looking somewhat drawn. Dukat remained seated behind his great black desk, but pointedly did not invite the other man to take one of the guest chairs. “Gul Darhe’el. Welcome back.”
“Prefect,” Darhe’el said tightly. His voice was cold and hard, as always.
Dukat, by contrast, kept his tone gregarious. “And how was your stay on Cardassia?”
The other man was clearly fighting to rein in his contempt, which amused Dukat no end. Darhe’el always was too arrogant for his own good. “It was brief,” he answered with exaggerated stiffness.
The prefect chuckled. “Yes, I expect it was. Congratulations, by the way, on receiving the Proficient Service Medallion. I must confess that I had wondered if you got the news about the accident at Gallitep while they were pinning the medal on your chest, or if they waited until the reception.” Darhe’el’s only answer was his cold stare, and Dukat finally rose from his chair, abandoning the game. “But we aren’t here to discuss the honors that have recently been heaped upon you, are we?” He picked up one of several padds scattered across his desk, and slowly walked around to the other side, reading the report that was displayed on the device’s tiny screen. “Dozens dead, with the number expected to rise in the coming days; even more permanently disabled; fully one third of the Bajorans and Cardassians in the camp believed to be afflicted with a malady we don’t even have a name for yet… and all mining activity temporarily suspended.” He tossed the padd back onto the desk. It clattered loudly as it landed. “I don’t appreciate having to clean up your messes.”
Darhe’el held Dukat’s gaze. “We both understand what this amounts to, Prefect-the one issue behind which we have always stood together: insufficient resources to manage the annexation properly. Lack of adequate personnel, lack of proper equipment-“
Dukat snorted. “You’re not going to escape responsibility for this by laying the blame at the feet of Central Command, that I can assure you. The fact of the matter is that your men mishandled a crisis that never should have arisen.”
“I was informed that the AI failed to correctly identify a pocket of poisonous gas-a toxin of a type never before encountered…”
“This was hardly the fault of the artificial intelligence,” Dukat snapped. “This was the fault of the men who were supposed to have been trained to operate the system, to correct for inevitable failures on the part of the machine-the men who serve under you. This is about your facility falling apart while you were enjoying the accolades of Central Command under the Cardassian sun.”
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For the first time, Darhe’el’s face lost its scowl as his mouth spread into a thin smile. “Is the prefect asking me to resign from my post?”
Dukat’s eyes narrowed. In fact, he wanted much more than to remove Darhe’el from Gallitep-he wanted him off Bajor. Darhe’el was a longtime favorite of Kell, and had been the legate’s personal choice to become prefect of the annexation, before Dukat’s secret maneuvering among the other members of Central Command had overridden Kell’s decision and secured the posting for himself. Dukat ascended, while Darhe’el remained at Gallitep. But the fact that the two guls were on opposite poles when it came to Bajoran policy wasn’t something that Kell had overlooked when he required Darhe’el to remain in charge of the mine. Of that Dukat was certain. Kell might be outwardly magnanimous, but he was unlikely ever to forgive Dukat, with whom he had long been at odds, for outmaneuvering him. Darhe’el was there to be Kell’s thorn in Dukat’s side… one the prefect was effectively powerless to remove.
“No,” he finally said in answer to Darhe’el’s question. Kell would never allow the other gul’s removal, not while Gallitep was productive, and Darhe’el knew that. Even Dukat’s political allies in Central Command would have none of it; they could hardly support the idea that the recently decorated Darhe’el bore responsibility for the mining accident. If anything, their public statements would emphasize the fact that, by taking place during Darhe’el’s absence, the accident proved how vital he was to Cardassian interests on Bajor. Nor would they be persuaded that insufficient resources and manpower were to blame for what happened. In the end, Dukat knew, the fault would land squarely where it always did: at the feet of Bajor’s prefect.
Dukat turned away from the other man and went back to his chair, speaking as he rounded his desk again. “Your file will be updated to contain an official reprimand. Gallitep is to be made fully operational again within five days. New troops will be provided to bring your personnel up to its previous level, and I’ll speak to Secretary Kubus about replenishing your workforce. The laborers who were exposed will continue to work for the time being. When they show symptoms of the disease, we can assess whether it will be feasible to treat them-or if they would be better off at Dr. Moset’s… hospital.” The good doctor was always in need of new test subjects for his Fostossa vaccines. “For the next two service quartiles, you will operate as usual, but you will be required to deliver semi-quarterly reports and submit to inspections by officials of my choosing-“
“The AI will require an upgrade.”
“You are hardly in a position to be making demands,” Dukat snapped.
“And I didn’t think I needed to remind you that Gallitep is by far Bajor’s most productive-“
“Was Bajor’s most productive facility. Terok Nor surpassed it some time ago, even before this… mishap.”
“I meant to say on the surface of Bajor, of course,” Darhe’el amended. “Though we both know that Terok Nor does not produce anything, only processes what Gallitep and facilities like it provide.”
Dukat busied himself with one of the other padds on his desk, refusing to look up. “Perhaps you should get back to what’s left of your facility now, Darhe’el.”
“Are you officially denying me the upgrade I’ve requested?”
“Qualified personnel for such delicate work are at a premium, as you know perfectly well. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“And the executions?”
Dukat scoffed. “What executions?”
“The examples we need to make to discourage further acts of sabotage.”
“This wasn’t an act of sabotage.”
“Does that matter?” Darhe’el asked. “News of the accident will spread, if it hasn’t already. The insurgents will use it in their propaganda. The facts will be distorted to fit their ends. They may even claim responsibility for bringing Gallitep to a standstill, and that in turn will embolden their countrymen to contemplate more acts of terrorism. We have to stop it before it starts.”
Dukat sighed. “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
Darhe’el abruptly left the spot to which he’d rooted himself, and leaned toward Dukat with both hands on the gleaming black surface of the prefect’s desk. His voice was surprisingly quiet. “You’re throwing it away, Dukat. All of it. Bajor should have been brought under control long ago, but you insist on coddling these people. You want them to love you when you should be making them fear you. You’ve yet to learn that no one believes in benevolent despots.”
“Are you finished?” Dukat asked.
Darhe’el straightened, his expression as he looked down at Dukat one of undisguised disgust. “Permission to disembark… sir.”
“Go home, Gul Darhe’el,” Dukat drawled. “Go home to your hole in the ground.”
Darhe’el turned and marched out without another word, leaving the prefect alone with his thoughts. Dukat sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The other gul’s lack of proper deference was infuriating, but Dukat knew better than to succumb to it. Darhe’el might be Kell’s favorite, but ultimately he was as powerless to harm Dukat as Dukat was to harm him. Let him bluster. In time Dukat would show them all he was right about Bajor.
Darhe’el was correct about one thing, however: Gallitep’s AI software needed attention as quickly as possible to get the mining operation back up and running. But the Union manpower shortages on Bajor were ongoing, and he couldn’t afford to wait for Central Command to process a request for a specialist to be sent from Prime-the accident had already put them dangerously off quota. The longer it took, the farther behind they’d fall.
It then occurred to Dukat that the answer to his problem might already be within easy reach. Perhaps there was someone at the Bajoran Institute of Science who was qualified to handle the job….
Even as Dukat reached toward his companel to order Thrax to raise the institute, the console unexpectedly chimed on its own accord-in a specific pattern that Dukat knew denoted a personal call.
From Bajor.
He found himself glancing about his office guiltily before he answered, bringing up the image of a young Bajoran woman, sneezing uncontrollably.
“Skrain,” the woman said, between her violent nasal outbursts.
Dukat found himself backing away from the screen. “Naprem,” he said, addressing the attractive woman, almost young enough to be called a girl. “My dear, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”
She shook her head, unable to speak as another sneeze overtook her. “No, Skrain,” she said, taking an enormous, exhausted breath. She sneezed again and shook her head. “Don’t you know what this means?”
Dukat slowly shook his head, trying to remember what it meant when Bajorans started to sneeze like this. He found it more than a little revolting, actually. Cardassians did not generally have such noisy and appallingly fluid bodily functions.
“It mean-ah-it means that I’m going to-choo-I’m going to have a baby, Skrain.”
Dukat was speechless, and watched her clear her breath for yet another sneeze.
“Did you hear what I said? I’m going to have our baby.”
“How… wonderful,” he said, his voice a little faint.
The room was sweltering. Laren could scarcely bring herself to take a breath; the air was searingly hot and smelled reptilian, the distinct odor of the filthy Cardassians who occupied it.
“Please,” gasped Ro Gale, twisting his body in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure from his wrists. He was manacled to chains that hung from the ceiling. “Get my daughter out of here!”
The Cardassian interrogator ignored her father’s pleas, his horrid skin as pale as fusionstone, his expression a mask of cruelty. His hair, the strange, distinct color of sun-scorched grass, shone hideously beneath the hot lights of the room. “We’re not finished here, Mister Ro.”
Laren’s hands tightened as she looked frantically for a way out. The cloying heat in the room was so intense, she feared she would lose consciousness if she remained much longer. She could not bear to watch her father be humiliated in this way. It shamed her; her father was supposed to be brave. He was supposed to fight the Cardassians, not cry and squeal like a child. She wanted to be out of this room. She wanted to be anywhere else but here, anywhere at all-
And then she was, bundled inside her sleeping bag, sweating between the layers of clothes and the coarse bedroll. She blinked. The light of dawn was just beginning to seep through the dense tree cover overhead.
Dream, just a dream. Forget it. It was what she told herself every time.
She wriggled out of the blankets and stood, began shaking off the dirt and leaves she had used to conceal the place where she slept, deep in the Jo’kala forest. The foliage here was so thick, the forest so wide, that the Cardassian ground tanks couldn’t penetrate the hilly terrain beneath the dense, heavy-branched trees. Soldiers had to patrol it by foot-but no Cardassian knew the forests well enough to venture very deep inside them, not without heavy communications equipment that buzzed and chirped so loudly the dead could hear them.
She rolled up her “bed” and set about organizing her few things. Though it was not yet dawn, she knew it soon would be. She might as well get up and face the day; she didn’t care to go back to sleep if it only meant having the same damned nightmare again and again.
She forced her thoughts ahead, going over what she had to do for the day. She stuffed her pack inside an old bag made from a sheet of Cardassian smartplastic, and slung it up around her shoulders, her phaser rifle fastened down around the bottom. She stretched her thin legs as she did this, and headed toward main “camp,” where Bram Adir and the others were probably still asleep. The nightmare, the memory was still there, but it grew dim as she walked. She replaced the violence of her father’s death with well-worn thoughts of what it would be like to put a phaser salvo right into the hideously grinning face of that oddly light-haired Cardassian. There were times when she could think of little else.
She had killed four Cardassians already. Four different Cardassian soldiers, on four separate occasions, with her resistance cell. She was one of the best fighters in this bunch, even though she wasn’t quite fourteen yet. Some of the others in the cell still tried to get away with treating her like a child, but she knew better. She knew that her hide was tougher than that of many of the full-grown men she had met in her short time with the rebels. And there was nobody who could pick a pocket like she could, nobody who could steal a holstered phaser right from under a Cardassian soldier’s bony nose. She had a talent for it; Bram had said so, many times.
Part of her ability came with her age, her deceptively girlish face. She knew this, and she took full advantage of it. It did the spoonheads no good to underestimate any Bajoran, but least of all Ro Laren.
It was with that thought that she spied Bram’s bedroll in the ethereal light of the approaching dawn, and she picked up a pebble to chuck at his sleeping form. It pelted the heavy fabric of his dirty blanket, and he sat up like a spring-loaded toy. Bram rubbed his forehead, wisps of dark hair plastered across it.
“What the kosst… oh, Laren, it’s you. I ought to have known. For Prophet’s sake, girl, go back to bed! B’hava’el is just waking.”
“Lazy, that’s what you are,” Laren chided him. She enjoyed pushing Bram’s buttons. He was just so delightfully easy to rile.
Bram shook his head. “I don’t know why I bother to keep carrying you along with us after all the grief you cause me, day after day…”
“Because you need me,” Laren said.
“It’s because you have nowhere else to go,” Bram said, “and I have a foolishly kind heart.” He removed himself from his improvised bed, stretching, and shook his bedroll clear of debris, much as Laren had done.
“I have plenty of places I could go,” Laren said.
“Sure, of course,” Bram said. “Go back to your uncle-“
“I’ll never go back there!” Laren said. She turned abruptly from Bram and ran down to the creek to wash her face in the icy water. Bram knew he could infuriate her by mentioning her “parents,” and he always had to play that card when he was annoyed with her, which was much of the time.
Laren had been on her own since she was twelve, when she ran away from her uncle’s house for the last time. After Ro Gale was murdered, Laren’s mother sank into such a state of despair that she had to be taken in by her family. She was no longer capable of looking after herself, let alone her daughter. Laren had been confused by her mother’s reaction-she missed her father terribly, of course, and she understood being sad about it-but why would her mother turn away from her daughter, as well, the only person who might have been a source of comfort? And why subject her child to the random cruelties that had gone on in that overcrowded house, full of so many cousins and foster orphans collected from neighboring villages that her uncle didn’t even know everyone’s name? Laren wouldn’t have dreamed of just… giving up, the way her mother had; a mother was supposed to protect her child. In this, both of Laren’s parents had failed miserably.
After several attempts to strike out on her own, Laren was finally emancipated at twelve, when the adults from her extended family stopped coming after her. It was not the most unusual thing, on Bajor, for a child to be on the streets by herself. Common enough, in fact, as to be unworthy of remark. She was only lucky she’d never been picked up by one of the Cardassian orphan-catchers. Lucky, or smart.
Laren learned how to dodge the spoonheads quickly enough, and how to pick their pockets even quicker. From the older children on the streets she had learned how to break and enter, and how to manipulate simple security systems, even the computers that ran some of the rationing checkpoints. It was a skill that had come in plenty handy when she finally encountered Bram Adir, the man who had taken her under his wing and been a bit like a father to her. Like a father, only bossier, and without much affection. Laren had long ago decided that she preferred it that way. Anyway, who else was going to teach her how to fly raiders? She was hungry to learn everything, but flying offworld-it was worth the price of Bram’s constant nagging and admonishments.
Laren rubbed her face with the creek water and shook the droplets from her fingertips.
Bram came up behind her just then, to fill his water-pack at the creek. “You know I was only having some fun, saying that about your uncle…” He trailed off.
“I know,” Laren said sharply. “Are we ready to go?”
“Nearly,” he answered. He capped off his pack, brimming over with cold water, and fastened the flat pouch around his back with a pair of straps. “Did you fill up your canteen? You’re not sucking off my water like you always do.”
“I only did that one time, and that was ages ago!” Bram had a long memory where Laren was concerned. She followed him as they returned to their base camp, near where the cell’s four raiders were hidden. “Aren’t we flying today, then?”
“Not today,” Bram told her. “I got a tip about something on the surface, a few kellipates outside of town. We’ll need you to override a security system-nothing fancy-just to let the rest of us in, and we’ll take care of the heavy lifting.”
She pouted. “Heavy lifting,” she sniffed. “So I don’t get to kill any spoonheads?”
“There won’t even be anyone there,” Bram told her. “We’re just pinching some supplies. When I said heavy lifting, I meant that literally.”
Laren shrugged, supposing she could live with that. She withdrew her canteen from her improvised pack and shook it-nearly empty. She considered rushing back to the creek, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Bram had plenty of water for the both of them.
Doctor Mora Pol’s hands were trembling as he poured the bluish substance from one beaker into another. He held it up to the light, and then brought it back down to his work surface, where he could measure the changes with his tricorder.
“Pol!” The familiar, clipped voice piped up so suddenly from behind him that Mora nearly dropped the beaker.
“Mirosha, you startled me!” Mora was openly irritated in his reply. Doctor Daul Mirosha was the only other Bajoran in the facility. Although it retained its pre-occupation name, the Bajoran Institute of Science, the Cardassians had taken it over long ago, expunging nearly all of the Bajoran researchers who had once worked there. It had happened gradually, the scientists leaving the institute one at a time, a few finding their way to refugee camps with the rest of the idle Bajorans. But many of them had seemed to disappear-most likely sent to work camps, or possibly even executed. No one spoke of it, not even Mora and Daul.
The two Bajoran researchers knew that someday they, too, would most likely disappear. But for now, the two worked together in tight quarters, under tremendous pressure to yield results in the most unrealistic of time frames.
“How does it look?” Daul asked him, trying to peer around his shoulder at the beaker.
“Well, I suppose I’ll tell you when I’ve run an active scan,” Mora said coolly. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
“By all means,” Daul replied, his tone equally cool. The two men did not always relish each other’s company. It should have been comforting to have another Bajoran face in the facility, but familiarity often bred contempt in these close quarters.
Mora initiated the scan. The test was chemical, a possible precursor to a treatment for Orkett’s disease. He moved a step forward, to free himself of the sour breath of his lab partner, and then frowned at the readouts.
“Let me see,” Daul insisted, reaching for the beaker, and Mora instinctively pulled it away.
“Just a minute,” he snapped. “You’re going to break it if you keep clutching and grasping like that.”
“Are you two finished squabbling?” Doctor Yopal, the director of the institute, stood in the entry, her arms folded.
“We weren’t squabbling,” Daul said quickly, his arms falling to his sides.
Yopal wore the same expression as always, a face mostly bereft of any detectable emotion, aside from a very obviously manufactured upward curve to her lips; that curve was always there. Whether she was angry, thrilled, exhausted, or depressed, Mora could never be quite sure, for her expression never deviated, not even for a moment. He had come to expect no less from her, or from any other Cardassian.
Yopal was usually friendly, sometimes almost intimately so, chatting with Mora about various personal issues from her life just as his old Bajoran colleagues had. But it was all performed with that distinctive little half-turn of a smile, a subtle, consistent indication that her entire persona was a front, pasted over something else. Mora was slightly terrified of Yopal, in spite of her efforts.
“I must say, gentlemen, the state of your notes on this project has been less than satisfactory for quite some time.”
“Doctor Yopal, I apologize,” Mora said, his words tumbling out a little too fast.
“Yes,” Daul spoke over him. “We have done our best to master Cardassian syntax, but I fear that sometimes we focus too much on the work and too little on the vocabulary.”
Yopal made an amused sound. “Men…” she began, the start of a familiar refrain. “You simply aren’t capable of the same kind of attention to detail as women. I suppose you cannot realistically be faulted-you were born with the natural inclination toward immediate results, with less regard for the process of getting there. Sometimes, gentlemen, the journey is as important as the destination-often even more so. I find myself reminding you of this truth far more often than I would a female scientist.”
Mora thought she might as well have been describing the difference between Bajoran and Cardassian, but he only nodded. “Of course, Doctor Yopal,” he said with well-rehearsed sincerity. “Again, my deepest apologies. It won’t happen again.”
She moved on now, wasting no words. “Doctor Daul, I have news for you. You will no longer be working on this assignment.”
There was a terrible moment directly after she spoke when Mora felt certain that he was about to see his friend for the very last time, and he immediately regretted all the moments of unkindness the two had shared. He tried to shoot his friend a look of appropriate apology, but Yopal was still talking.