Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Page 3

  “As a way of building bridges between our two peoples,” the gul said dismissively. “Yes, yes, I recall the words of the First Speaker. And as far as the Bajorans will know, that is the truth. But the reality—the Cardassian reality—is much different. This operation is wholly under the guidance of Central Command, not your Way, not the Detapa Council. The military alone will decide how events will play out,” he sniffed, leaning toward Bennek. “So remember that, boy. And remember your place.”

  With brittle grace, Hadlo used a napkin to wipe the corners of his lips and stood up, his meal completely untouched. Bennek followed suit, the young man wired with pent-up anger. “If it pleases the gul, we will take our leave of you,” said the cleric tightly. “We must prepare for the evening’s recitations.”

  Kell waved them away, his attention turning to the table to find a succulent seafruit.

  Ico stared at the door after it closed on the priests’ backs. She found herself wondering if Kell realized that he was as much wrong as he was right about who was really directing the mission to Bajor.

  Pa’Dar blinked and ate some more of his broth, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he changed the subject. “Any news from home? The communications feeds we receive on the lab decks are quite sparse.”

  “Censorship is commonplace in the military,” Dukat replied. “You learn to read through it after a while.” He toyed with the bread. “I know the question you really want to ask me, Kotan.” He nodded. “This mission remains classified for the moment.”

  “Oh, no,” said the scientist, lying poorly. “I was not concerned for myself. I was just wondering…what with the news of the famine in the southern territories just before we left home orbit. Have things improved at all?” He managed a weak smile. “Your family are there, isn’t that so?”

  Dukat’s lips thinned, and without really being aware of it, the officer’s hand strayed to the cuff of one of his sleeves. There was a small pocket there, and inside it a holograph rod. He didn’t need to look at it to remember the images encoded there: a woman, his wife Athra, her amber eyes a mix of joy and concern; and the child, his son, swaddled in the birthing blanket that Skrain himself had once been carried in. He thought of the sallow cast to the baby’s cheeks beneath the fine definition of the Dukat lineage’s brow, and a sharp knife of worry lanced through him. It showed in the flicker of a nerve at his eye, and the dalin knew immediately that Pa’Dar had seen it.

  In front of any other crewman, if he had been in the company of Gul Kell or any of the others, he would have hated himself for revealing such a moment of weakness, but Pa’Dar simply nodded, understanding. “Family is all that we are,” intoned the scientist, the ancient Cardassian adage coming easily to his lips.

  “Never a truer word spoken,” agreed Dukat. “The famine continues,” he went on. “The First Speaker has authorized the transfer of supplies from the stockpiles in Tellel Basin and Lakarian City. It is hoped that will lessen the problem. I admit I am not as convinced of that as the Council appears to be.”

  Pa’Dar seemed to sense the dark turn the conversation was taking and covered with a sip of water. “My family believe I am assisting the Central Command in a mapping exercise near the Amleth Nebula.”

  “As good a cover as any.”

  The scientist eyed him. “Amleth is perfectly well mapped as it is, Skrain. Such an assignment is an obvious fake, and if my family know that, they may believe the worst—that I am in harm’s way, sent into Talarian space or off toward the Breen Arm on some secret errand.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t want them to be afraid.”

  “Then you should be glad. Bajor is hardly a conflict zone. I doubt we’ll face anything more threatening there than the weather. I understand it’s rather intemperate.”

  “For Cardassians,” noted Pa’Dar. “Although apparently the coastal regions along the equator do have a temperature range we would consider more favorable.” He nodded toward one of the many padds on the table before them, and Dukat noted the image of a green-white world turning slowly in a time-lapse simulation. “Your family is from Lakat, yes? In the colder climes?” asked the scientist. “You’ll probably find Bajor not too dissimilar to your home in the depths of the winter months. Our reports on their climate show it’s less arid than Cardassia, likely with an extended growing season. It certainly appears more verdant.”

  “Indeed.” Dukat studied the alien planet. It reminded him of a ripe fruit on the vine, heavy with seeds and juice. Absently, he licked his lips and looked away, returning to his earlier point. “Think how pleased your family will be when you return to Cardassia after this mission is complete,” the dalin told the other man. “You’ll be well, unhurt, and more worldly from your travels, and with luck on our side we will come home with the glory of a new ally for the Cardassian Union.”

  “An ally,” repeated Pa’Dar. “‘Cardassia always leads, never walks in step.’ Isn’t that how the maxim goes? Do the Bajorans know that? Do they even know we are coming?” Doubt clouded the young man’s face.

  Dukat sensed the faint reproach in the civilian’s words, and for the first time he wondered if he might have been in error befriending the scientist. Perhaps he had been too open, perhaps he should have maintained the aloofness of his fellow officers; but it was too late now to concern himself with such thoughts. “The Bajorans know us,” he began carefully. “We’ve crossed paths with their people on occasion, on their outer worlds, in the reaches of unclaimed space. This will be a formal first contact, Kotan. An event of great import for both races. And I’m sure the Bajorans will immediately understand the enormous benefits that Cardassia’s friendship can bring.” The mere thought that any other outcome was possible seemed so unlikely to Dukat as to be hardly worth considering. He dismissed the dour look of doubt on Pa’Dar’s face. “You’ll see, Kotan. It will be a great opportunity for all of us. How often does someone of your status get the chance to take part in a delegation of this kind?”

  “Yes,” admitted the other man. “You are correct on that point. I admit, I am quite intrigued by the prospect of learning more about these aliens.”

  Dukat nodded again. “Just so.” He felt a tension in his fingers and covered it by taking another spoonful of the broth. He did not doubt that Pa’Dar was a far more intelligent man than he, but for all his academic knowledge Pa’Dar lacked an understanding of the realities of things. Bajor would become an ally of the Cardassian Union, simply because Cardassia required it. The path that would bring them to that destination was unclear to the dalin for the moment, but he had no doubt that it would open to him as time went by. Dukat felt a certainty of purpose about the mission, a determination that coiled hard and cold in his chest; he thought of his wife and his child at home, of their modest accommodation in the extended family quarters of his father’s house in Lakat, and that determination became firmer still. It was for them that they were doing this, it was for them that he would see the Kornaire’s mission a success.

  Ico poured another glass of rokassa for herself and then one more for Kell. “Was that really necessary? You gain nothing by alienating the ecclesiasts.”

  The gul made a face. “Incorrect, my dear Rhan. I gain some entertainment for myself on this most ordinary of voyages. If I have no pirates or border violations to take my frustrations out on, then these Oralians will do just as well. I’m only sorry I’m not allowed to space the whole band of insufferable prigs.”

  She sighed. “At least promise me you will not antagonize Hadlo’s aide any further. When we reach Bajor, it would not do for the first sight the aliens have to be Bennek’s hands about your throat.”

  “Let him try. Soft little priest with his soft little hands. I’d soon teach him that blind zealotry is no substitute for focus of will.” Kell took a gulp of the fluid.

  “Like it or not, we need them. We need that zeal.”

  He nodded with a grimace. “Yes, I suppose so. And so I will tolerate them, for Cardassia.” He saluted the name with his gl
ass. “At least until this is over. Once they’ve served their purpose, the Union can go on about the business of erasing them from our society.”

  Ico paused as she ate and cocked her head. “You really do detest the Oralians, don’t you, Danig?”

  He stared into his drink, musing. “They’re the worst of us. The very last vestiges of the old race we were before Cardassians came to understand their place in the universe. Throwbacks, Rhan, nothing but anachronisms.” Kell’s lip curled. “That arrogant young whelp, he’s a perfect example. He has the nerve to accuse the military of impoverishing our nation, we who defend it!” The gul tapped a balled fist on his chest plate, touching the copper sigil of the Second Order affixed there. “But it’s his religion that is to blame! They’re the ones responsible for the state of Cardassia, not us!” He turned in his seat, his ire building again, and fixed her with a look. “How many centuries were our people forced to live under the yoke of the Oralian Way? With every measure of wealth, every stone and scrap of jevonite going to build towers of worship? Places where the people could huddle and listen to hollow promises of salvation and redemption, when there was nothing!” Kell waggled a finger at Ico. “They repressed us, kept Cardassia from advancing. If Hadlo and his kind had their way, we would still be living in crude huts, our learning stunted by their dogma. You, Rhan, what would you be? Not a scientist! Some temple servant, perhaps, or a doting wife walking ten paces behind your husband!”

  Ico said nothing. The years when the church had been the governing force behind Cardassian society were long gone, but there were many who still carried a strong resentment toward the customs of the old credo. It mattered nothing to Kell that Hadlo’s faith was now only a pale shadow of the religion that had once dominated Cardassia’s pre-spaceflight era. The gul’s ignorance of the tenets of the Oralian Way was obvious by his words, but she knew that correcting him would gain her nothing. She simply nodded and let him continue.

  “The future for Cardassia lies out here,” he growled, jerking a thumb at the oval viewport high on the wall, at the stars outside turned to streaks of color by the ship’s warp velocities. “Not in some ancient doctrine.” He grimaced again. “Were I First Speaker, I’d have fed the lot of them to the Tzenkethi by now. They held us down, they wasted our resources. If not for the military, we would still be a downtrodden and backward people. Now every day we have to struggle to claw back the time those foolish priests cost us.”

  “And yet here they are, with us on this most sensitive of assignments. Do you find the irony in that as I do, Kell?”

  The gul eyed her. “The Detapa Council believes those ridge-faced primitives on Bajor will be better disposed toward a Cardassia that exhibits some of the same childish fealty to religion that they do. Hadlo and his band of fools are only here to maintain that fiction. To mollify the aliens, nothing more.”

  She nodded. “From a certain point of view, such a tactic might be seen as a desperate one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ico took another sip. “Has the Central Command grown so unsure of itself that it must enlist priests to help it gain a foothold on Bajor? Are our proud warfleets spread so thin that we cannot simply take Bajor by force of arms?” She gestured around. “One ship, Danig. Is that all the Orders can spare from the wall of vessels protecting our space?” She knew the answer to those questions as well as Kell did, but neither of them would dare to say it aloud. Not here. Not yet.

  His eyes narrowed. “I would advise you to watch your tone, Professor.”

  “Forgive me, Gul Kell,” she replied. “In my line of work, it is the nature of a scientist to make suppositions and voice theories.”

  Kell looked away without even bothering to grace her with a response.

  2

  B’hava’el was low in the sky across the rooftops of the dockyards and the port hangars, throwing warm orange light through the clouds, but the chill of last night’s storm down from the mountains was still hugging the ground. For most people in Korto, the day hadn’t really begun. Trams on the main thoroughfare were filled with workers coming in from the habitat districts, the rail-riders passing equally full carriages going the other way packed with night servants, cleaners, and members of professions that shunned the light of morning. Darrah Mace walked the edge of the city’s port field, occasionally glancing to his right to watch the highway traffic on the other side of the chain-link fence, but for the most part keeping his gaze northward, across the hangars and landing pads, over the grassy spaces around the runways. Ships clicked and ticked to themselves as he passed around them, some vessels dripping with runoff from the rain, others bleeding warmth from atmospheric reentry. He raised a hand and threw a wan salute at a group of laborers clustered around the impulse nacelle of a parked courier; they were using a crude steel plate to fry eggs on the ship’s heat exchangers. One of them offered him a greasy slice, but Darrah shook his head good-naturedly and walked on. The scent of the makeshift cooking lingered in the air, following him on gusts of wind that made his overcoat twist and flap.

  He’d heard there had been some trouble here last night, something about a fight interrupted, threats, and an issue or two unresolved. It was hardly atypical for the port. Darrah experienced a moment of memory from his childhood, triggered by the cook-smell: walking along after his father to go see the big lifter ships where the old man had worked, the loaders and dockers all laughing against the grim exertion of their chores. Then an argument had broken out, and one man had beaten another with a bill-hook. His mother had been furious that the boy had been allowed to see that. She’d never let Mace follow his dad to work again. She’d never understood that the blood, the violence, hadn’t frightened him. Mace had been with his father, who protected him. He thought about his own children for a moment, about his job; a bitter smirk formed on his lips as he imagined what Karys would say if Nell or little Bajin asked to follow him to work. “She’d pitch a fit,” he said aloud.

  Darrah hesitated at the edge of the landing apron, his chilly amusement turning swiftly into a frown. There was nothing here, and he’d done his part by just turning up, just taking a stroll around the port so people knew he was there. The laborers had seen him. They’d spread the word that Darrah had been around. That was probably enough. He pivoted on his heel, hesitating just for a moment as engine noise caught his ears. He stopped to watch as a slim, wire-framed freighter rose up on vertical thrusters from one of the elevated pads, turning a snake-head prow toward the sky. With a sharp report of ion ignition, gouts of smoky exhaust puffed from the ship’s engine bells and it shot away like a loosed arrow, roaring right over his head toward the south and the ocean. He watched it go, receding to a dot, for a moment being the young boy again; and then he realized that the noise of the liftoff had been hiding something else. Angry voices, from close by.

  Darrah went quickly through the maze of alleyways between the day-rental hangars and forced himself to slow to a casual walk as he rounded the corner, bringing the site of the dispute into view. He took in the crescent-shaped ship sitting half in and half out of the hangar, and faltered. He recognized the craft instantly, and for a moment he considered just turning and walking away, leaving the situation to play out as the Prophets intended. But only for a moment. The vessel was an odd bird, the fuselage of a decommissioned Militia impulse raider married to a brace of refurbished warp drives off an Orion schooner. It had a mutant, misshapen air to it, as if the craft were the result of some unfortunate mechanical crossbreeding experiment. It didn’t look like it should be flying, but Darrah knew full well that the pilot encouraged that appearance in a vain attempt to make it draw less attention. And the pilot in question, well, he was being pressed into the side of his ship by a man who had twice his mass, wearing dark clothes and a gaudy Mi’tino earring. Darrah frowned. In his experience, clans from the Mi’tino caste always had a sense of entitlement about them that made for poor relationships with anyone they considered a “lesser.” Like, for example, a skin
ny shuttle jockey in an ill-fitting tunic.

  Darrah cleared his throat, and the Mi’tino man paused with his fist cocked to punch his victim squarely in the gut. The pilot caught sight of Darrah for the first time, and his face flushed with relief, some color returning to his nasal ridges. “Ha!” The pilot managed. “You’re gonna regret this now! Do you know who that is? He’s only—”

  “Syjin, shut up,” snapped Darrah. “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” Syjin retorted, coughing because the big guy had him by the throat. “What are you doing, standing there and watching this lugfish manhandle me?”

  Darrah stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I’m sure it isn’t anything you don’t deserve. Let me take a wild stab in the dark here and say that you’re the person who was in danger of getting his head caved in here last night?”

  “Yes,” said the pilot. “Possibly. It’s a big port.”

  “Hey,” began the man in the dark jacket, angry at the new arrival. “Get lost!”

  “Not that big.” Darrah kept talking, ignoring Syjin’s assailant. “I bet you deserve it. Can’t you keep out of trouble for one single day? I mean, would that be too much to ask?” He was advancing as he spoke, letting his coat fall open a little. “Remember old Prylar Yilb at temple school? He was right about you. You’re on a road straight to the Fire Caves, my friend. Damnation eternal.”

  “Hey,” repeated the Mi’tino, but they weren’t listening to him.

  Syjin’s eyes widened. “Yeah, right after you, Darrah Mace! I’m not the one who broke the icons in the vestry! I’m not the one he made write out all of Gaudaal’s Lament a hundred times!”