Days of the Vipers

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Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Dukat sneered. “I understand why I was sent here now. You’ve become comfortable and hidebound, like the Bajorans. What’s needed here is boldness.” He shot Kell a hard look. “ Temerity,Jagul.”

Kell came to his feet. “You insubordinate whelp! How dare you stand before me and judge my orders! You will respect my rank and do as I command you!”

“I understand these aliens. I’ve seen how they think, how they feel and what they want.” Unbidden, memories surfaced in his thoughts. On the battlements of the Naghai Keep on the eve of the great feast. Dukat and the lawman, Darrah, talking as two men, nothing more; then again, in the corridors of the castle, as hate filled him and the need to take Hadlo’s life burned in his skin.The Bajoran’s words came back to in him a flash of insight. We’re a passionate people. We get so angry about things we lose focus on everything else.“The Bajorans hold grudges forever,” he told them. “They nurture them like their children. All we need to do to blindside these people is to bring them to rage. You only made them afraid. We need to make them furious.” Dukat leaned forward and picked up a padd from the jagul’s desk. On it was a report of two Bajoran warships that had recently departed the star system. The raw anger he had felt when he entered the room waned, replaced by a colder, more controlled resentment. They were forming a pact here, he realized. Without open words or accords, Dukat, Ico, and Kell were opening the way to the fall of an entire civilization. For the good of Cardassia. For Athra and my family.

“I know exactly how to do it,” he told them.

STAR TREK ^®TEROK NOR

DAY OF THE VIPERS

2318-2328

James Swallow

Based upon STAR TREK created by

Gene Rodenberry,

and STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ^®,

created by Rick Berman and Michael Piller

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9176-4

ISBN-10: 1-4165-9176-1

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For my parents,

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Contents

Dramatis Personae

OCCUPATION DAY ZERO

Prologue

TEN YEARS AGO

FIVE YEARS AGO

ONE MONTH AGO

OCCUPATION DAY TWENTY

Epilogue

Appendices

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Dramatis Personae

Arin(Bajoran male) priest, aide to Kai Meressa

Bennek(Cardassian male) a priest of the Oralian Way

Coldri Senn(Bajoran male) a high-ranking Militia officer

Cotor(Bajoran male) a senior vedek at the Kendra Monastery

Darrah Mace(Bajoran male) officer of the Korto City Watch

Darrah Karys(Bajoran female) wife of Darrah Mace

Procal Dukat(Cardassian male) archon in the Cardassian military justice system and father of Skrain Dukat

Skrain Dukat(Cardassian male) officer in the Cardassian military

Els Renora(Bajoran female) public defender for the Korto Justice Department

Gar Osen(Bajoran male) priest, resident of Korto District

Hadlo(Cardassian male) senior priest of the Oralian Way

Rhan Ico(Cardassian female) non-military xenologist

Jaro Essa(Bajoran male) senior Militia officer

Jas Holza(Bajoran male) Korto District administrator and member of the Chamber of Ministers

Jekko Tybe(Bajoran male) adjutant for Minister Keeve Falor, former partner of Darrah Mace

Keeve Falor(Bajoran male) member of the Chamber of Ministers

Danig Kell(Cardassian male) high-ranking officer in the Cardassian military

Kubus Oak(Bajoran male) member of the Chamber of Ministers

Lale Usbor(Bajoran male) First Minister of Bajor, succeeding Verin Kolek

Pasir Letin(Cardassian male) a priest of the Oralian Way

Li Tarka(Bajoran male) colonel in the Militia Space Guard

Lonnic Tomo(Bajoran female) senior adjutant to Minister Jas Holza

Meressa(Bajoran female) kai of the Bajoran faith

Myda(Bajoran female) officer of the Korto City Watch

Kotan Pa’Dar(Cardassian male) non-military Cardassian xenologist

Proka Migdal(Bajoran male) officer of the Korto City Watch

Tima(Bajoran female) religious novice

Syjin(Bajoran male) freelance pilot and courier

Tunol(Cardassian female) officer in the Cardassian military under Skrain Dukat

Verin Kolek(Bajoran male) First Minister of Bajor during 2318

DAY OF THE VIPERS

OCCUPATION DAY ZERO

2328 (Terran Calendar)

Prologue

The priest’s hand rested on the small, carved handle that controlled the pitch of the window’s nyawood shutters. A slight turn of the wrist would be all it required to close them firmly against the lessening day outside, but he hesitated, peering through the slits at the city streets ranged below. The smell of smoke was more pronounced now, and the faint acridity made his nostrils twitch. The scent was already in the room with him, different from the wisps that issued up from the cairn of glowing stones in the chamber’s fire pit. Outside, the fires that raged were uncontrolled and full of lethality; in here, deep within the fusionstone halls of the Naghai Keep, he was safe.

The thought drew up the corners of his lips in a brief, bitter smile, his blandly handsome face turning away. Safe.The term was such a relative concept, a fragile construct stitched together by fearful men and women who marked out pieces of their world and declared them inviolate, as if they could wall off danger and forbid it to trespass. Gar Osen, vedek of the Prophets, could declare himself safeinside these walls, but he knew that the granite battlements and copper-studded gates were no more than paper to an aggressor who was determined to breach them. To think of oneself as safe from anything was foolish; a person could only truly exist in degrees of jeopardy, spending their life balancing the chances of death against moments of comparative peace. The bitter smile turned grim and stony.

Beneath the windows of the keep, far out past the ring wall and the ornamental public gardens beyond, into the city of Korto itself, Gar’s gaze ranged over the shaded boulevards of the municipality. The fading day was prematurely dark with oily gray rain clouds rolling in from across the Sahving Valley, as if the weather itself were attempting to draw a veil over what was happening down on Korto’s thoroughfares; but he had no doubts that the same sequence of events was taking place all over Bajor, in the cities of Ilvia, Jalanda, and Ashalla, across the spans of the planet from Musilla to Hedrikspool and every province in between.

He imagined he would see the same thing, hear the same sounds if he could stand at similar vantage points in those places. A woman’s scream, sharp as the bark of a tyrfox; the long rumble of a building collapsing; air molecules shrieking as disruptors split them asunder; and the regular pulsing drum of gravity-resist motors. Gar saw a trio of shapes nosing slowly over the Edar Bridge, shield-shaped things that looked like legless beetles, shoving stalled skimmers out of their way with arcing force bumpers. Each had a spindly cannon on a pintle mount that tracked back and forth, tireless and robotic. For a moment, he wished for a monocular so that he might be able to get a better look at the armored vehicles, but there was little need. The priest knew exactly what they were.

If he looked hard enough, he could just about make out the insignia painted on the sloping, gunmetal-colored hulls: a scythe-edged fan, something like a spread flower. The sigil, just like the grav-tanks and the beings that crewed them, was unlike anything native to Bajor. And yet they moved, not with the wary pace of new invaders, but with the arrogant and stately menace of an occupying army. Gar had only to watch them, and now the lines of figures in black battle armor coming up behind the tanks, to know that the Bajorans had already lost. The arrival had come, silent and steady as the sunrise, and Bajor had been looking the other way.

The more Gar looked, the more he saw. Black-suited shapes here and there, in the marketplace and the City Oval. The blink of beam fire, followed seconds later by the noise of it reaching him high in the keep. He wondered idly where the citadel’s defenders had gone. Were they still up above him on the ramparts, peering through their rifle scopes at the same sights, too afraid to do anything, too surprised to discover they were no longer safe?Or perhaps they had run, fled to the hills or back to their families in the low-caste quarters of the city. The priest doubted that anyone had been able to escape. Nothing but smoke was in the air now, and he hadn’t seen anything lift off from the riverside port since the morning—and even that craft had been so small and so fast, it was impossible to know its design and origin.

He thought he heard a clattering from the gates, but Gar’s chamber was on the far side of the keep from the main portcullis and the wind rose and fell, bringing only snatches of sound to his ears. Not for the first time that day, his thoughts drifted to the desk in the middle of the room where his effects lay in untidy profusion. Beside an open copy of Yalar’s New Insights was a cloth bundle concealing a narrow-bore phaser pistol. There was plenty of room inside the vedek’s voluminous robes to conceal the gun, but then what would that benefit him? To be an armed priest on today of all days—it invited trouble. And besides, he was quite capable of killing with his bare hands, if the matter pressed him to it. He looked down at his spread palms, at the thin and lightly tanned skin, the lengthy artisan’s fingers. There was a moment of disconnection, as if the hands belonged to someone else.

Gar heard sounds out in the corridor beyond and the thread of his reverie snapped. Swift, frightened footfalls stumbled along the wooden floors, getting closer by the second. The vedek stepped to the table and laid a hand on the phaser, those long fingers slipping into the cloth to wrap around the weapon’s knurled grip.

A hard report sounded on the chamber door. He could hear someone gasping in deep breaths on the other side. “Gar! Gar!” The words were high with effort and terror. “Are you in there? For Fate’s sake, open the door!”

Gar knew the voice, and he schooled his face in the moment before he released the latch.

A hooded figure in pastel-colored robes fell in through the door and slammed it shut behind. The hood fell back to reveal slick, jet-black hair framing a pale gray face lined in ropelike ridges, sunken blue eyes darting back and forth across the chamber. The Cardassian held a leather carryall clutched to his chest, knuckles white where they held on to the strap with wild determination. He blinked and swallowed hard. “Brother,” he began breathlessly, “you have no idea how glad I am to see you! I didn’t dare to hope that you would still be here.”

Gar opened his hands. “Where else would I be, Bennek, if not here? In times of crisis, the Prophets would not have us flee and leave our kindred alone.”

Bennek hesitated at those words, as if he sensed something of an admonition in them. He worked visibly to calm himself and placed the bag upon the table, taking an empty seat. Gar offered him a flask of water, and the Cardassian drank greedily.

“Why are you here?” Gar asked carefully. “You must know the keep won’t offer you any sanctuary.”

Bennek’s eyes widened. “You would turn me out?”

Gar shook his head. “I mean that this place won’t protect you.”

The other man sagged in the chair. “I…I know that. They’re out there, sweeping the streets with bio-scanners. Looking for Cardassian life signs.” He nodded bleakly. “Yes. They’ll find me soon enough. It’s inevitable.”

“The others?” The vedek eyed the bag, wondering about its contents.

“Gone,” Bennek said in a dead voice. “Scattered, murdered…I pray to Oralius that it is not so, but I have only seen bodies.” He grabbed at Gar’s wrist in sudden panic.

“What if…what if I am the only one left? What if I am the last to walk the Way?”

Gently, the vedek peeled Bennek’s fingers from his arm and pushed him away. “My friend,” he said quietly, “I can only imagine what horrors you are facing at this moment, and I pray for you. I know the Prophets and your Oralius will watch over you. You must be strong, Bennek, for if indeed you arethe last of your faith, then you alone must rise to bear the weight of it.”

The Cardassian looked away. “I don’t know if I can.” He choked off a sob. “I…Tima, she…”

“Strength, Bennek,” repeated Gar. “The time for more mortal concerns will come later.” He glanced at the window. The thrumming of the tanks was closer. “But for now, you should get away. Go to ground.”

“Can you hide me?” The words were plaintive, like a child’s. This Bennek was a far cry from the one who had first arrived on Bajor so many years earlier, full of purpose and brimming with unshakable belief. All that had been slowly beaten from him, flensed away over time until he was little more than the pale echo sitting before Gar. These past days, the events unfolding across Bajor, Osen saw now how they were the last turns of the screw, the final pressures that broke the Cardassian priest’s will. “Please?” Bennek asked.

Gar shook his head. “You ask too much, Bennek. You’ve been out on the streets, you’ve seen what is happening in Korto. If they find you here, they’ll burn the keep to the ground, and everyone in it. Would you want that?” He advanced a step. “Would Tima want that?”

“No,” Bennek said quietly, and then with more conviction, “No.” A measure of his former strength returned to the Cardassian. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me for my weakness.”

“I’m sure even Oralius knows that no man can be strong every day.”

Bennek nodded. “But now I have to be.” He opened the bag and removed an object hastily wrapped in a torn and scorched strip of prayer tapestry. Gar recognized the tightly lined forms of Hebitian script across the blackened cloth. Bennek unrolled the tapestry and revealed an ornate mask carved from milky gray wood. The features of it were unquestionably Cardassian, but strangely fluid as well, and bore odd striations that some observers might think mimicked the nasal ridges of a native Bajoran. Something about the mask unsettled the vedek, but he was careful not to let that emotion show on his face.

Bennek let out a small cry of despair as he took up the mask and a part of it came away in his hands, a piece from the orbit of the right eye, whorled with delicately worked filigree in latinum and jevonite. “It must have been damaged when I ran from the encampment.”

“It’s only a small impairment.” Gar appraised the mask.

“This is an impressive relic.”

“It is one of the original Faces of the Fates, from the time of the First Hebitians on Cardassia,” said the other priest. “I’ve kept it safe for years…” He blinked, shaking away a moment of distraction. Placing the mask on the table, Bennek delved into the bag again and brought out a nested set of tubes made from murky glass. More etchings in the careful Hebitian script covered the exterior. “The Recitations,” explained the Cardassian. “This is one of only a few complete copies of the Word of my faith. This, my Bajoran brother, is the holy text of the Oralian Way in its entirety.” Bennek’s hands were shaking as he touched it.

Gar was no stranger to the religion, having seen Bennek and the members of his congregation perform their rites on many occasions. They would don the masks, ceremonially assuming the role as the avatar of their god, before speaking the lessons of Oralius as read from their sacred scrolls. The vedek assumed that somewhere there had to be definitive originals of the text, but he had never dared to imagine that one of them might be here, on Bajor. Bennek’s breathless awe in the face of these two objects was ample illustration of the incalculable value the Oralians placed on them. “Why do you show me these things?” he asked.

The Cardassian was on his feet, nodding to himself. “You cannot hide me, I was wrong to ask it of you. I will leave this place, but in the name of our twin faiths, I ask you to do this for me, Osen.” He pointed at the relics. “Conceal them. Hide the mask and the scrolls from the soldiers and promise me you will never reveal their location as long as you live, not until the soul of Cardassia grows strong again, not until the Voice of Oralius is ready to be heard once more. Tell me you will do this.” Bennek thrust the scrolls into Gar’s hands, and the vedek rocked back. “Swear it!”

There were more footsteps out in the corridor: the heavy thud of armored boots matched with the splintering of doors being kicked open. Gar heard gruff voices shouting and calling out commands to one another.

Bennek’s eyes were pleading, shining with fear. “In the name of your Prophets,” he cried, “swear it!”

TEN YEARS AGO

2318 (Terran Calendar)

He made his way along the gridded walkway across the central span of the mess hall, throwing curt juts of the chin to the other junior officers who saw him pass. Glinn Matrik gestured toward an empty chair at his table, but Skrain Dukat ignored him and passed on by, stepping down into the sunken level of the dining area, to a bench with only one occupant, the surface of the table a controlled mess of padds.

Kotan Pa’Dar glanced up from the bowl of teflabroth before him, and his eyes widened in mild surprise. The scientist toyed briefly with the spoon in his hand as Dukat sat down opposite him with his tray of edibles. Pa’Dar aimed his utensil at the other man’s bowl. “The broth’s quite horrible,” he began. “I think the dried rokatmight have been a better choice.”

In spite of himself, the dalin’s youthful face soured. “There’s a saying in the Central Command,” Dukat noted. “The Union Fleet runs on three things. Determination. Obedience. And salted dry rokatfillets. Serve a term or two aboard a starship, Kotan, and you’ll come to hate that fish as much as any of us do.”

Pa’Dar smiled slightly. “I’ve never really eaten it that much, I must say.”

“It’s a staple on every fleet ship and installation from here to the Spinward Edge.” Dukat sipped the broth; and it was horrible. “I imagine rokatdoesn’t appear on the plates of families from Culat that often. Perhaps you’re used to the finer things in life.”

The scientist’s face darkened around his jaw ridges. “It isn’t that.”

“Oh?” Dukat broke off a piece of black bread and soaked it in his soup. “It’s always been my understanding that your family is one of…shall we say, one of those better equipped to deal with the hardships of life?” He snorted. “When I was a boy in Lakat, there were times when a meal of overcured rokatwould have seemed like a feast. For many, that still holds true today, perhaps even more so.” For an instant, Dukat felt the ghost of an empty stomach, the memory of tightness in his gut from malnutrition. Even now, with two full meals a day at his command as a serving Union officer, the echo of the hungry child he had been still shadowed him there at the edges of his thoughts. He shook the moment away.

“You’re teasing me, Skrain,” said Pa’Dar. “I can’t help where I was born any more than you can.”

He nodded after a moment. “Yes, I am teasing you. It’s because you’re such an easy target.” He grinned, showing white teeth, and sucked at the bread, savoring the simplicity of it.

Pa’Dar relaxed a little. The stocky young civilian had a bright mind, but he was sometimes so very naïve for a Cardassian. In truth, Dukat felt a little sorry for him. A life growing up in a relatively wealthy councillor clan from a university city, and then nothing but service to the Ministry of Science…Kotan Pa’Dar was a sheltered fellow, and the dalin felt obliged to repay him for his diverting—if sometimes rather bland—company by opening his eyes.

“Is that why you’re eating with me?” Pa’Dar shot a look over at Matrik and the other glinns two tables away, making rough sport of some off-color joke. “Before I came aboard this ship, my experience of dealing with military officers was usually one of clipped orders and dour disdain. At the best, scornful looks and faint distrust.”

Dukat gestured languidly. “That’s the soldierly mind-set for you, my friend. We’re trained to regard you civilians as a regrettable impediment to our endeavors.”

Pa’Dar glanced at him, and Dukat could see once again that Pa’Dar wasn’t really certain if his friend was being honest or mocking. “So, then. Why are you joining me here, instead of making fun of me at a distance?”

“Don’t you like my company?” Dukat replied. “As dalin, I ama ranking junior officer aboard the Kornaire.”He spread his hands to take in the room, the starship. “I know this is hardly the gul’s private dining chambers, but still…”

“I’m just trying to understand you a little better, Dukat. I’m a scientist, that’s what I do. I see phenomena, I seek answers.”

“Phenomena.” Dukat repeated the word, amused by it.

“I’ve never thought of myself in that fashion.”

“Your behavior is rather atypical for a Union officer.”

Dukat stroked his chin. “Quite correct. I am atypical, very much so.” He leaned closer. “There’s too much rigidity in our people, Kotan. Compartmentalization and stratification. It breeds stagnation. Why shouldn’t a scientist and a soldier share a meal and speak plainly to one another? Narrow-mindedness won’t serve Cardassia in the long term, and I aim to serve Cardassia for a very long term indeed.”

The doors slid open to allow the priests to enter the dining chamber, and they swept in, in a rustle of azure and cream-colored robes, long lines of square metallic beads trailing away along the lengths of their arms and the layered wrappings across their torsos. The larger of the two scowled through the thick luster of his beard and aimed a narrow-eyed glare at Kell; the gul sat indolently at the end of his table, pouring himself a generous glass of rokassajuice.

In return Kell saluted with the jug and gestured to the room’s other occupant, an austere female in the duty fatigues of the science ministry. “Forgive me, Hadlo, but Professor Ico and I were quite hungry and we started without you.” He smiled, a smug expression with no real humor in it. “There’s still a serving for you and your, uh, associate.” Kell nodded to the younger of the priests, who hovered nervously at the older man’s shoulder.

Hadlo took his seat at the gul’s table and gestured for his aide to join him. “We were detained by matters of the Way,” he explained. “The day-meal must be marked by a brief thanksgiving to Oralius. I have explained this to you before, Gul Kell.”

Kell nodded. “Ah yes, of course. But the Central Command’s military regulations are quite strict on the scheduling of refreshment periods during shipboard operations. I’m sorry, but I cannot delay a meal in order to accommodate your…unique requirements.” He sniffed. “Perhaps you could arrange to have your ritual earlier?”

“Oralius does not follow a mortal clock,” said the younger priest. “Her Way has remained unchanged for millennia.”

“Bennek,” said Hadlo, with a warning in his tone. He helped himself to a healthy serving of broth. “Perhaps, Gul, you might consider attending usat some point during our journey to Bajor. The space you graciously provided my group in the Kornaire’s cargo hold has proven most adequate to our needs. I would enjoy having you visit to hear a recitation.”

Ico took a purse-lipped sip of the rokassaand watched the interaction, faintly amused. She’d seen the same thing play out a dozen times over the course of the journey from Cardassia Prime, and the woman found herself wishing she had kept track of the barbs that lanced back and forth between the two men. It would be interesting to tally a final score between priest and soldier by the time they arrived at Bajor.

Kell’s face was a barely concealed sneer. “As diverting as your readings might be, I’m afraid the very real and pressing matters of commanding this starship occupy every moment of my time. I have no opportunity, or indeed motivation, to sit and listen to your scriptures.” He grunted. “Central Command would prefer me to attend to issues of certainty, not ephemera.”

Ico decided to press upon the sore spot, just for the sake of alleviating her own boredom. “I wonder. Have your recitations drawn the attendance of any members of the Kornaire’s crew?”

Bennek answered for his superior. “We have seen some new faces, Professor, yes. Admittedly, less than I had hoped.”

Kell colored. “I’ll have the names of any of my men who shirk their duties to hear you talk about phantom deities,” he growled.

Hadlo chuckled dryly. “My esteemed Gul Danig Kell, you remind me of Tethen, the proud man from the fourth codex of the Recitations. Like you, he refused to open his eyes, even when the Faces of the Fates spoke directly to him—”

“Spare me,” Kell broke in. “I thought we agreed last time that you would leave your holy scrolls at the door.”

“Just as you agreed not to mock our faith,” Bennek said hotly.

Kell eyed the youth. “Have a care, boy. Remember whose starship you’re standing on. Remember whose air you’re breathing.”

Ico put down her glass with an audible clack.“This is the Union’s starship, is it not?” She took a deep breath. “And this is the Union’s air as well. As much the property of the Cardassian people as it is that of the Central Command.” The woman nodded to Hadlo and Bennek. “And these men, as much as you or I might take issue with their beliefs, are still Cardassian.”

“Correct, as ever, Rhan,” Kell allowed silkily. “Sometimes it escapes me that we all have a function to perform in this endeavor.”

“We would not be here if our presence was not vital to this delegation,” Bennek continued, unwilling to be mollified. He took a terse sip of rokassa.“The Detapa Council asked us to attend this mission in order to open a dialogue with the Bajorans. I find it difficult to understand why they agreed to let a commander who so clearly finds our presence distasteful direct this formal contact!”

Ico studied the youth; he had fire, that was evident, but he was untrained, and he lacked the ability to focus his passion that Kell or his mentor possessed. She imagined that he would learn that lesson soon, or else he would find himself facing men who were less inclined to suffer his foolishness. “Gul Kell is one of the Second Order’s most highly decorated officers,” Ico offered. “I’m sure he would never let even the smallest of personal prejudices affect the performance of his duties.”

“Quite so,” Hadlo added, making an attempt to derail any further argument before it moved forward. He gestured to himself, then to Ico and Kell in order. “The Oralian Way, the Ministry of Science, and Central Command have all entrusted us with this important formal contact. Together, we will meet Bajor and show them the face of a unified Cardassia.”

“Unified?” The youth wasn’t willing to let the matter drop; and indeed, Ico could see a small quirk of pleasure on Kell’s lips as well. The gul was in the mood to argue, she could see it in the tension around his eye ridges. “What unity is there in Cardassia these days, beyond the unity of suffering?” Bennek put down his glass and stared at Ico. “Have you seen the datastreams from the homeworld, Professor? The reports of the famine and the dissent among our people?”

“Ourpeople?” Kell said quietly. “Some would say it is yourpeople who have brought those things to pass, Oralian.”

Bennek ignored the other man, his watery gaze still on the scientist. “The planets of our species are pushed ever closer to the edge of poverty, the forced austerity imposed by the military stretching our civilization to its limits. And for what? So that we can engage in pointless, unresolved conflicts with the Federation, and petty skirmishes with the Talarians?”

“I am not a soldier,” Ico ventured in a mild tone, “but even as an academic I recognize the threat the Talarians pose to our borders, Bennek. Do you not agree that they are a warlike race, expansionist and violent? Have you not seen the records of the raids they made on our fringe colonies?”

The young priest swallowed. He had clearly expected Ico to support him in the face of Kell’s bellicose manner, and now that she had not done so, he was floundering. “I…I have,” he returned. “But I question the need for us to commit so much matériel and men to fighting them. We’ve warned them off. If they keep out of our space, shouldn’t that be enough? Why do we have to invade their republic again and again when the effort of that war could sustain lives at home?”

Kell grunted with laughter. “Military doctrine by way of a priest. I never thought I’d see the like.” The gul leaned forward. “Boy, all you have done is show your ignorance. For the record, the conflict with those Talarian savages is not a war. They don’t deserve the honor of such a thing. It is a punitive engagement.” He made loops in the air with his free hand. “They’re like voles. Small, sharp teeth, quick, and numerous. Kept down, you understand, they are nothing but a minor impediment. But allow them to breed too much and you’ll soon find an infestation on your doorstep. The Talarians dared to come into our space, the voles into our house.” He grinned at his own analogy. “So we drove them out. And now we must cull their numbers. For their own good.”

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