Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Read online

  “The land and the people are as one,” intoned Meressa.

  “This truth has been at the heart of us since the day the Prophets first walked among us; but when our sons and our daughters venture far beyond the stars and dark fates come to claim them, they are no longer at one with the soil of their birth.” The priestess bent down and scooped a handful of sandy dirt from the courtyard at her feet, then let it fall away through her fingers. She gestured to the corpses. “These shells are no more than the husks of what our kindred once were, the corporeal remains of friends, brothers, sisters, lovers.” Bennek saw several of the Bajorans in the stands behind the dais nodding, some moved to tears. There were children among them, he noticed, realizing for the first time that those had to be the families of the Eleda dead.

  Meressa continued. “Tomorrow, those shells will be taken from this place and committed to the land, buried to lie beside the shells of their ancestors. But what of their eternal souls? For those who perish in the void, uncountable distances from the land, what will befall their spirits?” She looked up into the sky and spread her hands. The Cardassian cleric felt the thrill of surprise once more; the kai’s gesture mirrored the same ritual pattern that Bennek had performed aboard the Kornaire. All she lacked was a mask of recitation for the similarity to be complete. At his side, he heard Hadlo’s sharp intake of breath, and from the corner of his eye he saw that Gul Kell’s first officer was glancing his way. Even Dukat sees the resemblance.

  “You need not fear for the souls of our brave friends,” said the priestess, smiling warmly. “The faith that moves through us all, that brings life to our flesh and to our eternal spirit, is the faith of the Prophets. We feel their love and their wisdom, in life as we do in death, and in doing so we know that once our brief candle is extinguished”—the Kai paused, dousing one of the ceremonial tapers—“a new light will be illuminated. The light of the way toward the Celestial Temple, where all live anew in the bosom of the Prophets.” She bowed her head for a moment, and all the Bajorans followed suit. “What remains after death is but a shell. A sign that the pagh has begun its final journey to the Prophets. We ask that they reach out and guide the souls of the Eleda to their reward, knowing that we shall see them again when the day comes for our light to be eclipsed.” Meressa looked up. “And we give thanks to our friends from across the stars for their kindness in bringing closure to the families of the lost.” The kai and the other priests bowed to the altar and then again to the Cardassians. Unsure of the correct etiquette for the moment, Hadlo and Bennek hesitantly mirrored the motion, sharing a questioning glance.

  Bennek could see that the cleric was troubled by the kai’s benediction. The uses of language, the gestures and ritual—there were several points between the Bajoran rite and Oralian funeral sacraments that were alarmingly alike. The old man clearly read the intention in Bennek’s face, the need to speak it aloud, and he gave the slightest shake of the head. “Not now,” whispered Hadlo. “We…we must tread carefully.”

  The energy of the moment bled out of Bennek in an instant, and he felt crestfallen. “But, Master, do you not see that—”

  Hadlo held up a hand to silence him. “Remember where we find ourselves, Bennek,” he husked. “Amid those of our own kind who see no value in the Way, on alien ground among those who may be misguided. We must take care to ensure that these people are kindred spirits. We must find the right moment.”

  Ico glanced at Kell as the gul let out a low breath between his teeth. She raised an eyebrow and spoke quietly so only the Kornaire’s commander would be able to hear her. “Am I to take it that you do not find this ceremony to be as enlightening as I do?”

  Kell grunted softly. “‘Enlightening’ is not the word I would have used, Professor. ‘Primitive,’ perhaps. ‘Distasteful,’ even.” He looked at her, amused with himself. “You are the expert on alien cultures, are you not? Tell me, what can we expect to see next? Rousing hymnals? The ritualized slaying of some small and inoffensive animal?”

  She resisted the impulse to sneer at Kell’s words and simply cocked her head. “I do not believe so. What data our observers have gleaned shows no predilection toward behavior of that kind. Bajoran religion appears to be beneficent, at least within the bounds of the inherently repressive nature of all enforced faiths.”

  “And did your observers tell you how long these interminable benedictions go on for?” Before them, the Bajorans had lit a series of oil lamps and joined in a solemn, metered chant.

  Ico smiled thinly. “I believe that some formal ceremonies can last for several hours.” She looked away, watching the Oralians. Hadlo and his junior Bennek were sharing words as well, but too low for Ico’s hearing to pick up the speech; it mattered little, however. Her skills included the training to read the physical cues of humanoid body language, and with men like these clerics who were unschooled in the arts of obfuscation and dissembling, it was almost child’s play to divine their emotional states. Bennek balanced on the cusp of youthful enthusiasm, dazzled by the sights and sounds of the new environment around him, while Hadlo reeked of desperation and the steady drumming pulse of fear. She’d sensed it in the old man the moment she had first seen his face, his watery brown eyes staring up at her from the screen of a padd. Ico could read the cleric’s emotional index as easily as she could the text of a book. Then, as now, she knew he was the correct choice to participate in the Kornaire’s mission. All that was required was a steady, vigilant hand to ensure that he led the Oralians down the path that was being laid out for them.

  Her attention returned to Kai Meressa and the Bajorans as the ritual for the dead came to a slow, stately conclusion. It fascinated her, the way that the Bajoran faith was so clearly threaded through everything that the aliens said or did. The same shapes and motifs appeared in their clothing and their architecture, the oval symbols recurring again and again. Ico was quietly content that she had been born into an era where Cardassia had grown out of such unsophisticated beliefs; she was the product of a Union where belief in the strength of her people’s destiny was enough, without the need to resort to the invention of phantom deities. There had been a time in Cardassia’s past when they too had been hidebound by dogma and creed. Ico’s placid face hid an inner grimace as she imagined her species in thrall to weak men like Hadlo and his Oralian nonsense. But the Cardassian civilization had matured, finding new strength in its austerity, and the cleric’s Way was withering and fading; perhaps, in time, Cardassia would be able to educate the Bajorans so they might find a measure of the same maturity.

  The ceremony concluded, the Bajorans broke apart into groups, some remaining in the courtyard, others leaving. Dukat noted that the natives of apparent high rank bore distinctive jeweled rings and chains about their right ear. Every Bajoran he saw had the earring, but some sported simple silver or steel versions, while the men and women who stood with the First Minister wore ones studded with gemstones and precious metals. He followed Kell and Ico, with the others from the Kornaire trailing behind him, through a tall set of doors that were carved from a dense black wood inlaid with copper plates beaten into friezes. He looked up and saw renderings of Bajoran warriors armed with cannons, primitive crossbows, and strange kite-like gliders engaging in battle with one another. The copper was worn and smooth to the touch.

  Pa’Dar came to his side. The scientist had his ever-present tricorder in his hand. “These carvings are ancient,” he noted, peering at the device’s screen.

  Dukat nodded. “I’ve seen something similar in the mineral baths at Corvon.”

  “Not like this,” said the other man. “The Corvon mural dates back to the pre-Hebitian era. These…” Pa’Dar put out his hand and ran gray fingers over the metal. “Perhaps there’s something in the structure confusing the scanner. According to my tricorder, these plates are more than fifteen thousand years old.”

  Dukat looked around, taking in the high ceilings of the Naghai Keep, the ornate columns ranging up the walls, the floors of po
lished granite slabs. Banners and tapestries hung in alcoves behind humming stasis field generators; there were towering paintings of landscapes and Bajorans in robes and tunics that seemed little different from the clothes worn by Verin and the others. The soldier felt a sudden and palpable sense of history pressing in on him from all around, almost as if the age of the castle were a scent in the air.

  The other minister, the one named Jas, was speaking to Gul Kell as they walked. “Ladies and gentlemen, now that the sober matter of the Eleda has been concluded, I would like to extend to our guests from Cardassia Prime an invitation to remain and dine with us. I have had my staff prepare a meal.” The minister threw a nod at one of his functionaries, a dark-skinned female with a shorn skull, and she in turn signaled two guardsmen to open another door, revealing a wide hall beyond. “The hospitality of the Naghai Keep and the Jas clan are yours,” he smiled.

  Dukat crossed over the threshold of the room, and his senses were assaulted by a hundred different odors of cooked foods, of spices and mulled wines, fruits and vegetables in a panoply of colors and shapes. He tasted the scent of something that had to be roasted fish on his tongue and, despite himself, felt his mouth flood with saliva. Weeks of passable rokat fillets and that barely palatable tefla broth from the Kornaire’s food stores were suddenly like a bad dream. All around a wide, ring-shaped table in the center of the hall there were heaped serving trays of Bajoran dishes, alongside metal drums of steaming herbal infusions and heated wines.

  It was more food in one place than Dukat had ever seen in his life.

  Pa’Dar blinked at his tricorder. “This…feast is compatible with our biology,” he announced, clearly sharing a degree of Dukat’s amazement.

  “Of course,” insisted Kubus, a note of affront in his tone.

  “I provided the keep’s cooks with a complete dietary guide for your species.” He chuckled self-consciously. “You may not find it as appealing as taspar eggs or fine seafruits, but I promise you, you will be intrigued by our native dishes.” He gestured to a plate. “Try the hasperat. It’s some of Bajor’s most popular fare.”

  They took their seats, but Dukat felt a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t readily explain. The scents of the food washed over him; he hadn’t realized that he was hungry, but the smells were mouthwatering, and a wave of greed tingled in the tips of his fingers. Part of him wanted to take all he could and gorge on it. He glanced around, watching Kell and Ico, Hadlo and the Oralians, all of them following the lead of the Bajorans and helping themselves to brimming glasses of drink and plates piled with edibles. Dukat wanted to do the same, but something stopped him—and for a moment he was the young boy from Lakat all over again, growing up hungry, the table at his home always spartan. His lips thinned.

  It wasn’t as if he had been born into poverty—far from it. The Dukat family was relatively well-off in the scheme of things, a middle-tier clan with good holdings and a respectable income. Many lived in far worse conditions. But life in Lakat, life all across Cardassia Prime, was one of austerity. Shortages were a matter of fact on a world where meager farmlands might produce only a few barrels of grain each season.

  And now he was here, on this world of verdant green fields and wide oceans, surrounded by these plump-faced people with their smooth skins and rich clothes, and before him they had laid out enough food to feed an entire Cardassian family for a year. Dukat recalled the poor level of sustenance that his lower-ranked subordinates were forced to live on, and the obscenity of the moment settled on him. The Bajorans ate and talked, and they were wasteful with it, some of them leaving half a course on their plates before moving on to something else, letting their servants take the serving dishes away. He wondered if the leavings would go to feed the staff, or if they would simply be discarded. The idea of such ostentatious, thoughtless wastage set his teeth on edge, and he fought down a surge of resentment. What right do these aliens have to live so well when my people must fight for every mouthful?

  “Dalin Dukat?” He turned to see Kubus Oak studying him. The Bajoran offered him a glass of purple-hued fluid.

  “Try this, it’s a vintage springwine from the vineyards in the hill provinces. I’ve found my Cardassian associates enjoy it.”

  Dukat took the proffered glass stiffly and sampled a little. It was rich and potent. “You have had many dealings with the Union,” he noted. He remembered the man’s name from one of Kell’s briefings; the Obsidian Order had characterized the merchant minister as an opportunist with grand plans for himself and a somewhat mercenary attitude. Dukat knew the type well.

  Kubus nodded. “That I have. I’ve always found your people to be most scrupulous. It’s a pleasure to see that relationship grow stronger.” He smiled. “You’re not eating. Is there nothing here that is to your liking?”

  Dukat returned a cold, humorless smile. “I don’t wish to seem ungrateful. It is just that…you have so very much. It’s hard to know where to start.”

  The minister smiled back at him, turning away as someone else took his attention. “Take what you want, Dalin. There’s more than enough.”

  “Indeed,” the Cardassian said quietly. He took another sip of the springwine and let his eyes range around the room, finding Bennek grinning over a plate piled high with some sort of pastry. The cleric was talking to a Bajoran woman, one of the servant girls, and for a brief instant Dukat imagined he saw the glint of a different kind of hunger in the young man’s eyes.

  Dukat stared into his goblet, seeing the swirling sapphire liquid within as if it were the resentment that burned inside him. These Bajorans knew none of the hardships that his people did, and it angered him. How could Hadlo and Bennek speak of the blessings of beneficent guardian powers that watched over Cardassia, and then come to a place like this and realize how much their people were forced to go without? The scales of the universe were unbalanced if lean and vital Cardassia had to live hungry while Bajor, with its static and inward-looking culture, feasted every day. Dukat held up his glass and looked through it, at the food and the people and the vast walls of the hall beyond; and once again, the flare of raw greed rose in him.

  Take what you want. Kubus’s words echoed in Dukat’s thoughts. “We will,” he whispered to himself, raising the glass to his lips.

  As the evening drew in and the meal moved to a conclusion, Jas Holza found the moment of definition that had been eluding him all day. As a statesman, he had learned from his father that the key to understanding his enemies and allies was to find the nature of them at the first meeting; that impression, the visceral and immediate truth of it, would never fail to be the correct one. All Jas had to do was listen to himself, and heed it.

  As he watched Gul Kell polish off a leg of porli fowl, the definition suddenly came to him. The Cardassians are like grass vipers. Watchful and measured about everything they do, but always ravenous. He smiled slightly, self-amused. The gray skin made the comparison complete, and Jas recalled the dry, reptilian texture of the gul’s flesh when they had shaken hands. But what do they see when they look at us? He hoped it wasn’t porli fowl.

  Kell dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Ministers,” he began, glancing at Jas and Verin. “I hope you will forgive my bluntness on this matter, but I would like to speak to you of the future.”

  “Oh?” Verin leaned forward. “In what fashion, Gul Kell?” Jas wondered if the aliens registered the faint disdain in the old man’s voice.

  The Cardassian summoned a server to pour him more wine. “The friendship of the Union has much to reward those who accept it. The Detapa Council believes that a strong society is one in partnership with its neighbors.”

  “Quite so.” Kubus threw the comment in from down the table, catching the edge of the conversation. From the corner of his eye, Jas noticed that the elderly Cardassian cleric was listening in as well.

  “And what do you think, Gul?” Verin asked. The old man had seen the slight tic as Kell spoke of his masters; but then, the alien wouldn’t be
the first soldier to chafe under the commands of his civilian masters.

  “I am a humble servant of the Cardassian Union, no more. I follow my orders, gentlemen, and today those orders are to extend the hand of friendship to Bajor.”

  “You’re talking about trade,” said Jas, a wary note entering his voice.

  “Our planet wants for little from other worlds,” said Verin abruptly. “We need nothing from Cardassia. The Prophets granted us a home that fulfills all our needs.”

  Kell nodded toward Kubus. “Some feel differently, is that not true? Bajor does engage in commerce with other worlds throughout this sector.”

  “It would be more accurate to say that our colonies do,” corrected the First Minister firmly. “We export very little. And what does come from offworld to Bajor herself does so in only the most limited quantities.” He glanced away dismissively.

  Jas saw the Cardassian look at the other alien at his side, the one wearing the plain tunic. At first Jas had thought it was another male, but when it spoke he realized abruptly that she was a female of the species. The shapeless, unflattering uniforms the Cardassians wore did nothing to highlight the differences between their sexes. “Are you not curious about what other races may have to offer Bajor?” she pressed. She gestured at the food. “Clearly, your generosity shows you have much to offer others.”

  “You are too kind,” Verin replied, but his smile never reached his eyes. “Hospitality is a core tenet of our culture, Professor Ico. The Prophets tell us to treat all visitors with respect…no matter what their origins.”

  “And we thank you for it,” Hadlo ventured, saluting with a nod of his head.

  Jas put down his goblet and looked directly at Kell. “Gul, I think you are pressing us to ask a question that you would like to answer. You spoke of bluntness, so why not be blunt, and say what you wish to?” He ignored the glare Verin shot him.