Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Cardassia is alwayson a war footing,” Dukat grunted.

“And the Talarian conflict was not concluded,Kotan. It came to a stalemate. The two things are not the same. Just because we have withdrawn from Republic space and no longer engage them in open battle, it does not mean we can turn away from them. They still represent a viable threat. Along with the Breen and the Tzenkethi, they hold walls around Cardassia on three fronts.”

“And because of that, we expand toward Bajor?” Pa’Dar replied. “We should be consolidating, not expanding. Our people need to apply restraint to the factions in the council, marshal our citizens, and deal with the Oralian matter.”

“And how would you accomplish the latter?” Dukat asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Most who follow the Way do it out of habit. If the Cardassian Union gave them the same leadership in their lives, they would reject the church. I would give them that and offer them a choice. Disavow their religion and reintegrate or leave the homeworld.”

“To Bajor, perhaps?” Dukat selected a few data rods and put the rest aside. “Pack off the troublemakers and the zealots?” He nodded to a small screen showing an exterior view of the Lhemor.He smiled thinly. “Kotan Pa’Dar, I do believe that the colors of your clan are showing through that scientist façade you wear. Anyone listening to the words you just said would think you were a politician and not a man of learning.”

“I speak plainly.” Pa’Dar bristled at the officer’s tone. “I know that is a rarity among the circles you move in.”

Dukat chuckled again, and Pa’Dar knew he was mocking him. “So tell me, then. You have the solution to Cardassia’s social ills. What about her other needs, eh?” He gestured around at the Kashai’s dun-colored walls. “Our naval forces were depleted in the process of teaching the Talarians some discipline. We cannot rebuild faster because we don’t possess the minerals we need. Bajor does, but they will not trade it to us. We get only a trickle, too little too slowly. How would you address that?”

Pa’Dar felt the color rising in his ridges, the flesh darkening. The open challenge in Dukat’s words was clear. If he backed down he would lose whatever respect the dal had for him. His jaw hardened. Very well. I will say what I wish to, and hunger take Skrain Dukat if he takes offense over it.“The answer is plain to see. The Bajorans feel intimidated by us. What we see as normal behavior they see as aggressive and demanding. To make them open up to us we must be more like them. Cardassia needs to foster a peaceable route toward collaboration. If we force them, they will dig in their heels and become intractable. Warships and soldiers like you won’t do the job.”

To his surprise, Dukat’s expression changed and he nodded in agreement. “I think you are correct, Kotan. If there are mistakes being made on Bajor, it is that our kind expect the aliens to adhere to our patterns.” He shook his head. “They won’t. And if Cardassia had the time, I would say that your route would be the one to take.” He activated the replicator, turning his back on the scientist. “But we will not. Cardassia does not have the luxury. The Talarians will nip at our borders once again, it is their nature. We have seen ample evidence today of Tzenkethi audacity, and then there is the constant pressure of the Federation’s influence. If we bide our time, we allow all those enemies to gain strength over us.” He nodded again. “Let me tell you what must be done. Bajor must be made to understand how lucky they are to have the Cardassian Union as a friend. They should give us what we need and do so willingly. They don’t appreciate that they should be grateful for our patronage, and that must be pointed out to them in the strongest of manners. Anyone who cannot see that, Bajoran or Cardassian, becomes an impediment to our greater good.”

“That…that has all the color of a threat, Dukat.” Tension settled in Pa’Dar’s muscles. In a cold, immediate rush of insight, he saw something different, something callous and hard in the other man’s manner. It was as if a vast chasm had suddenly opened up between them; but then again, perhaps it had always been there, and only in this moment had Pa’Dar recognized it.

The commander drew a number of steaming plates from the replicator’s maw and placed them on the table. The scents from spiced meats and pastries brought back memories of the feast in the Naghai Keep, but suddenly Pa’Dar felt his appetite fading. “Threats are only intentions never made manifest,” said Dukat, taking a seat and a large chunk of meat. “Why waste time on them? Bajor must be taught, and teaching requires the application of lessons.” He glanced up and saw that Pa’Dar had not touched the food. “You’re not eating. Is there nothing to your liking?”

The scientist got to his feet. “I will take my leave of you, Dal Dukat. I’m afraid I find everything here…distasteful.”

As the door closed behind him, Pa’Dar caught a ripple of laughter at his back.

10

Darrah Mace thumbed the entry control on the lock pad to silent and entered the house quietly. From the outside, most of the windows were dark, and he didn’t want to wake the children if they were sleeping. Sliding the door shut behind him, he stopped sharply, narrowly avoiding walking straight into the chest-high statue in the hallway. The sculpture had only been in the house a few days, and he still hadn’t got used to its being there. Another gift from Karys’s mother, the artwork was apparently quite valuable, but to Darrah it looked like the torso of a nude, corpulent woman crossed with a bunch of broken sticks. He thought it was unattractive and obstructive, and to his wife’s displeasure Bajin had expressed the same opinion. Only Nell, ever the conciliator, had said something nice about Grandmother’s efforts, and even then she had damned it with faint praise. Darrah imagined that they would follow the same pattern they did with every such gift from his in-laws; it would stay in the house for a couple of months before he shifted it to the basement to be out of the way with all the others.

He threaded his way through the wide bungalow, following the faint smell of food coming from the kitchen. The shutters across the window were open slightly, and through them Darrah could see the glow of the city below the hills. The view was one of the best things about the place, and on a clear day he could stand there and pick out the habitat district where their old apartment block still stood. He slid open the kitchen door on its rails and found his wife at the table, picking at a carton of food with one hand, reading a booklet with the other.

Karys closed the book and inclined her head. “Kids are asleep.”

“I gathered.” Shrugging his tunic onto an empty seat, he sat down opposite her, and she immediately got up, putting distance between them. Mace sighed and helped himself to a glass of kavajuice. It was too warm, but he was too thirsty to care. “Is there anything to eat?” He cast an eye over the containers on the table, the debris of a take-out meal from one of the vendors down in the commercial quarter.

“There was a couple of hours ago,” she retorted. “At supper. You remember supper, Mace? I think you had it with us when Nell was still crawling.”

The jibe barely registered. He flipped open the lids of the boxes and his lip curled. Cooked fish smells assailed his nostrils, smoky and potent. “What is this?”

“Rokatfillets and seafruits in yamoksauce.”

“That’s Cardassianfood. Since when did we live on alien grub in this house?” He shot her a glance. “I want something Bajoran.”

“You’re dealing with the Cardassians all the time now. I thought you’d be used to their foods. And besides, since when did you have a choice in deciding who eats what?” Karys came back toward him, bristling, and Mace knew she was gathering the momentum for an argument. “If you were around more often, you might have a say in it.”

Mace shoved the boxes away and took a gulp from his juice. “I pay for this house. I pay for space for your mother’s damned monstrosities in the hallway. The least you can do is have something I can eat in the place when I come home!”

“Whenyou come home!” She seized on the words. “You promised me things would be different when we moved here, Mace!” Karys put her hands flat on the table.

“The assignment with the enclaves, you said it would make us better off and you said you’d be home more often. But you’re not. Nothing is different!”

“Nothing?” he shot back. “You have the home you wanted, I got you out of the stackers, gave you a life more to the taste of an Ih’valla.What more do you want?”

“I want my husband in the house!” Her voice started to rise, and she checked herself. “For more than a few hours a week, at least!” She shook her head. “I see Rifin Belda at services and I feel like I’m turning into her!”

Mace frowned. Belda was the wife of the late captain of the Eleda,and she had struggled hard to continue on with her life, left alone with two children after her spouse had been lost. “Belda’s husband is dead.”

“And she sees his memorial more than I see you.”

Mace’s temper flared. “That’s not true, and you know it.” He blew out a breath. “Kosst,Karys. What do you want from me? I’m trying to give you the best life I can, keep you safe. Don’t you understand, if I don’t work this hard, all this goes away?” He gestured at the house. “How many times do we have to rake over this old ground?”

“So I should be grateful and silent, is that it?” She snorted. “Do you know, my sister sent me a comm from the colony today. We talked for a long time.”

Mace rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure that went well. She can’t stand me.”

“She offered to get me passage out there, Bajin and Nell too. Suddenly I’m wondering if I should accept!”

He got to his feet and drained the rest of the drink. “You’re going to go to Valo II? To a rural border colony? I don’t think so.”

“What makes you so sure?” demanded Karys.

“Because you’d go insane. After a couple of weeks of looking at fields and trees you’d be desperate to come home.” His voice shifted into the harsh tone he used in prisoner interrogations. “You hate being away from the center of attention, Karys, and that’s what Korto is these days. You like being cosmopolitan.” He flicked at the food containers. “You like being daring and worldly, the wife of a City Watch inspector who deals with exotic offworlders every day.” Her face darkened, and he knew he’d struck a nerve. “But you can’t have it both ways.” Mace felt buried tensions churning inside him, the legacy of dozens of half-finished arguments and directionless animosities forcing themselves to the surface. Part of him wanted to stay and unleash them, and for a long moment he balanced on the edge of giving them voice; but then he turned and snagged his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Where are you going?” she snapped.

He deliberately ignored the pleading tone in her words.

“To get something to eat.”

Darrah hopped a near-empty tram at the foot of the road and took it to the night market at the base of the hill. Hunger always made him terse and short-tempered. He found the first street vendor he came across and handed her a couple of lita coins, getting some savory porlistrips in a rough mapabread roll. He wolfed it down and then got another, along with a cup of ice water. Licking grease from his fingertips, Mace caught sight of himself in the polished chrome of the vendor’s food wagon. His face was set hard in a grimace, jaw locked and eyes narrow. The echo of his anger with Karys was still resonating in his bones. Walk it off,he told himself.

He wandered into the alleys of the market, between the narrow walls of the stalls selling clothing and trinkets, hot and cold foodstuffs, entertainment software or old books. When they saw him coming, some of the sellers rather indiscreetly used cloths to cover parts of their stalls to hide their wares. He didn’t doubt that some of the vendors were trading pirated isolinear disks; there was a strong trade in illegally copied holo-programs from the United Federation of Planets that the City Watch was continually trying to stamp out, which kept rising again no matter how hard they worked to eradicate it. Others kept their stock discreetly hidden, like the men who traded in programs of a more questionable kind. Although it didn’t fall directly in his jurisdiction anymore, Darrah was aware that sales of that kind of material had spiked in Korto and other cities where there were enclaves. It appeared that some Cardassians had an interest in Bajorans that went beyond the cultural; and the trade wasn’t just one way, either. The idea that Bajorans wanted such intimate information about the reptilian aliens made his gut twist. He made a mental note of faces and resolved to pass the information on to Myda at the precinct in the morning.

Darrah looked up at the ornate chronometer that towered over the night market. It was a little after twenty-three-bells. In the past, the stallholders would have been tearing down their pitches by now, rolling up their stock, and dismantling the stalls before calling it a night, but if anything the bazaar was running at a good clip. There were customers in every alley, and Darrah noted that the majority of them were Cardassian. They like the warm nights,he recalled, thinking of something that Lonnic had told him. The vendors were staying open later in order to service their new patrons. They come into the city at dusk during the summer months.

The offworlders fell into two groups. There were knots of Oralians, who were never in anything less than a group of three or four, hooded figures shrouded by pastel robes of dusky pink and sky blue. The pilgrims dallied mostly around the stalls selling used paper books or tourist trinkets depicting items of local interest like the bantacaspire and the keep. Small resin models of the Kendra Monastery and laser-cut crystals in the shape of an Orb ark were the most popular purchases, or so it seemed.

The other Cardassians were the soldiers in their beetle-black armor, men from the escort warships in orbit or the so-called “support staff” out at the enclave. Darrah never saw any signs of weapons on them, but he imagined that the carapace plates of dark metal could easily conceal small blades or beam guns. These aliens walked either in a tight group, with the same watchful motions as a recon unit in enemy territory, or else they were alone, loping from stall to stall, talking in low tones to the dealers.

In accordance with council ordinances, colored ribbons on the stall frames denoted the permissions and contents of a given booth, but most of the stands also had banners dangling alongside them with Cardassian text written in a sketchy, poor hand. Darrah couldn’t read them, but he knew the food vendors had banners explaining that their cooking was compatible with Cardassian digestive tracts, or that offworlders and “friends of Oralius” were welcome. He frowned at the signs and walked on, crossing under the clock tower, finishing his water and discarding the cup.

It wasn’t just the aliens themselves that showed their influence on things in the city. At the toy stands there were little kits one could purchase that would make a model of a Selek-class starship from paper and glue. He saw commemorative PeldorFestival plates from the year the Eledacrew had been returned, disks of white porcelain with montage images of the funeral at the Naghai Keep. There were clothes on sale, knockoffs of the fashionable items worn by the higher D’jarras that resembled the cut of Cardassian tunics and Oralian robes; and there were more subtle things, like the way the traditional icons of hearth and home were being supplanted by symbols of space and new horizons. Once it had been a rarity for Darrah to cross paths with an alien, and now that he did it every day, it seemed so natural. He glanced up as a flyer hummed past overhead. He knew immediately that the vehicle had a Cardassian engine—the tone of the drive was dull and tight, unlike the grumbling throb from less powerful Bajoran-made craft.

“Ho, Mace!” The voice cut through his musings, and he turned to see Gar Osen beckoning him from the steps of the marketside temple.

“Ranjen,” he said, coming over. “What are you doing here?”

Gar indicated the small temple. “Just a small bit of church business about tomorrow’s new arrivals. It went on a little longer than I thought it would.”

Darrah nodded. There was another boatload of Oralians arriving at Cemba Station the next day, and both he and the priest had to be there.

Gar gave a wan smile. “You know how it is, Inspector. The higher up the wheel you turn, the more things you have to deal with.” The flyer was settling on the road nearby. “I was just leaving. Do you need to go somewhere? I could have my driver give you a lift…” He trailed off, and Darrah knew that his old friend was reading him. “What’s bothering you, Mace?”

“I haven’t even opened my mouth yet. What makes you think there’s something bothering me?”

Osen frowned. “I’m your friend and I’m your priest. If I can’t tell when something is wrong with you, I’d be failing on both those counts.” He gave the man in the flyer a shake of the head and gestured back into the temple. “Come on. Unburden yourself.”

Darrah resisted. “I have no burdens, Ranjen.”

“No? Well, how about two men just talking, then? I’ll ask the Prophets to turn a deaf ear to anything sacrilegious you might say.”

A day later, and they were in orbit. Gar paused to smooth down the front of his robes and glanced down the length of the commerce platform’s reception area. It was a wide space, dominated by a large horizontal window that looked out into the void. He always found the station to have a slightly shabby, down-at-heel atmosphere to it, and if the option had been his he would have preferred to meet the Oralians on Bajor rather than up here. It wasn’t as if the place was decrepit or anything like that; it was just a bit too industrial. It lacked grace, and it was hardly the best first impression to give new arrivals. But there had been raised voices in the Chamber of Ministers about allowing Cardassians, Oralian or not, unfettered passage. It was largely down to the agitation of Keeve Falor that they were here on Cemba instead of holding a reception at the Naghai Keep. The priest sighed. Here, on the outer decks of Cemba Station’s main structure, the hemispherical shape of the orbital platform’s main hull joined a spider-web of thin gantries, extending out to tend to arriving and departing starships. Sunlight reflected from the Derna and Jeraddo moons illuminated the vessels in dock; the priest didn’t know the makes and models of the ships, but he did know the difference between Bajoran designs and Cardassian ones, and there were none of the latter in evidence. He had heard Darrah say that the Union military liked to keep their ships untethered, and indeed he could discern the shapes of a couple of craft farther out in higher orbits. Yellow-amber hulls glittered, reminding him of the mantas that swarmed in the Dakeeni shallows.

The inspector crossed his line of sight, in conversation with two of his watchmen, talking urgently and glancing at his chronometer. Security was another reason why the reception was taking place on Cemba Station. In Ashalla, Hathon, and Jalanda, there had been demonstrations calling for greater restrictions on the movement of the aliens, and some had concluded with hostility. Darrah Mace and his men were here to make sure that didn’t happen today. Darrah was all business now, and he was a different man from the person who had sat with Gar in the marketside temple the night before, angry and sad, trying to find a way to make his marriage work. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of concern on the man’s face; Darrah was in his element here, in perfect charge of things. Gar understood why Darrah gave so much of himself to his work: At least there he can feel like he has control over his life.He remembered the worry, the real fear, in his friend’s eyes when he spoke of Karys’s comment about going offworld. Osen had soothed him by pointing out that Mace’s wife had a history of idle threats, but then again she was touching on something that Gar had been seeing more often of late. There was a small but concerted movement by some Bajorans across the planet to leave it. Ships making the voyage to Prophet’s Landing and Valo were taking more emigrants along with their cargo. There were plenty of people whose issues with the government’s choices over the alliance had spurred them to leave. He sighed, thinking of the kai’s words outside the Kendra Shrine. This path that Bajor is on, it should be toward unity, not division.He wished she were here now.

The party from the clergy were talking quietly among themselves, and Vedek Arin was nodding at questions from the cluster of novices that had joined him from Kendra. Arin caught Gar’s eye and gave him a perfunctory smile. The ranjen had hoped that Kai Meressa would have joined them for this small outing, but Arin had closed that matter the moment he arrived. The kai was indisposed.That was the small lie they were using to save face. According to Arin, Meressa’s illness was making it progressively harder for her to leave her chambers at the retreat in Calash. The temperate weather and clear air there had helped her somewhat, but more and more Arin was assuming the role of her day-to-day proxy. Gar resolved to take a skimmer out to the retreat the first opportunity he got.

“There,” said Tima, a young novice with blond hair and bright green eyes. She pointed out at the void. “There’s the ship.”

Gar saw the Lhemoras it came around the curve of the window, the long, corrugated shape of the freighter turning to settle against the docking arm. There was a resonant thud of metal against metal as it locked on to Cemba Station, and he saw glowing red lights turn white around the airlock tunnel. The priest saw a second vessel drift past, eschewing the open docks. It had the same manta-wing profile as the other Cardassian military ships, and it moved up and away to a steady distance from the commerce platform. Gar couldn’t escape the implication that the Lhemor’s escort was watching it like a desert hawk.

After a few minutes, with a whine of hydraulics the hatch at the end of the airlock tunnel dropped into the deck and revealed the Oralians. Gar scanned their faces, seeing a mixture of wary enthusiasm and, in some, slight disappointment. Vedek Arin came forward, and Gar moved with him as the figure at the head of the pilgrim party rolled back his hood, revealing the cleric Bennek. Gar was struck by how much the Cardassian’s face had darkened with deep lines that gathered at the corners of his eyes. A smile crossed the alien’s expression and he bowed.

“Vedek Arin, Ranjen Gar. In the name of the Oralian Way, I greet you and extend once more the thanks of our congregation for allowing us to visit your world.” His smile faltered a little. “The kai is not present?”

Arin shook his head. “She is indisposed, cleric, but she sends her most profuse apologies and warmest greetings.”

“The Fates protect her, then.”

Gar nodded. “Welcome back to Bajor, Bennek. I hope our honored friend Hadlo is well?”

There was a momentary flicker of emotion in the Oralian’s eyes, and Gar wondered what it could signify. “Hadlo remains on Cardassia Prime, engaged in matters of the Way,” he explained, “but he hopes to visit you again in the near future.”

“Just so,” noted Arin. “You know Gar, of course. Let me introduce you to some of our newer novitiates who will be joining us today.” The vedek ran through the learners, and Gar caught an unmistakable flush of emotion in Tima’s expression when Bennek shook her by the hand. The girl was clearly spellbound by the aliens.

Nearby, Darrah cleared his throat and indicated the corridor beyond the reception area. “Gentlemen? A shuttle has been fueled and is ready to take you down to the planet. If you’ll follow Constable Proka, he’ll show you the way.”

“Of course,” allowed Arin. As the vedek launched into a conversation with the Cardassian cleric, Gar watched the rest of the Oralian party disembark. There were more of them than he had expected, and he wondered if the shuttle might have to make two trips to the surface and back to take them all.

One of the males detached himself from the group and came across, a broad grin threatening to break out on his face. “Pardon me, but are you the ranjen Gar Osen of Korto?”

“I am.” Gar was surprised to be recognized by an alien.

“And you are?”

The Cardassian’s grin unfolded and he shook Osen’s hand, palm to forearm in the old fashion. “Pasir Letin, Ranjen! I’m excited to meet you. I hope we will be able to discuss some matters of theology.” He was walking quite swiftly, and the Bajoran had to quicken his pace to stay in step with him. “I was most fascinated by your monograph on Trakor’s Prophecies.”

Gar blinked in surprise, momentarily wrong-footed by the other man’s enthusiastic manner. “You read that? How did you—”

Pasir kept speaking. “There’s been a strong exchange of information among our faiths in recent years. I was particularly struck by some of the similarities between Trakor’s divination on the matter of the Pah-wraiths and Oralius’s words of rebuke in the Hebitian Records.”

The group was approaching the hangar bays, and as he walked, Gar formulated a reply. He was going to ask the Oralian a question, but the opportunity was snatched away as the deck of Cemba Station lurched beneath his feet, pivoting forward, the gravity controls struggling to compensate. There was a brilliant white flash of light from behind them, and the priest felt a wash of searing heat across his back and the bare skin of his neck.

The next sound he heard was the explosion, the screaming roar of broken air and burning backdraft.

The tingle of the transporter died away, and Dukat took his first breath of Bajoran air in five years. He stepped off the reception dais set in the corner of the Union embassy’s atrium and crossed the chamber, his boots clicking on the dun-colored stone floor. Passing under a huge Galor Banner, he glanced toward the entrance doors below and saw the honeyed glow of sunlight through the windows set in them. Inside there was nothing but the soft chime of computers at the monitor stations, but out beyond the windows there were figures moving and shifting. Dukat imagined that if the building were not soundproofed, he would have heard shouts and disorder. He scowled. It was one more black mark against Jagul Danig Kell, and he filed it away.

Dukat noticed troopers with stunner rifles loitering near the doors, and with them a group of nondescript civilians in the uniforms of medical specialists. They appeared to be waiting for something. For a moment, the dal considered approaching one of the soldiers and demanding an explanation from him, but then he dismissed the thought. There were other, more pressing issues to deal with, and he wanted to get them out of the way as soon as possible. The quicker I speak with Kell, the quicker I can be done and return to my ship.

He presented himself at the security arch and eyed the technician behind the monitor. There was no need for an exchange of greetings; the operator knew who he was, her console reading the ident plate fused into his armor the moment he had materialized on the dais. She gestured to a wide-spectrum scanner matrix set in the floor like a tall, thin tombstone. “If you please, Dal Dukat.”

He did as he was bid, letting a pulse of blue light flick across his eyes. In moments, the noninvasive bio-scan and retinal profile threw up a confirmation, and a light glowed on the arch. “You may proceed, sir,” the woman said, and looked away, moving on to her next work item.

Dukat passed through the arch, and a discreet door opened in the wall across from him. The turbolift inside rocked gently as it took him into the embassy’s inner spaces. The building followed standard Central Command design protocols; it was a bunker within a bunker, a hardened blockhouse constructed from reinforced thermoconcrete on a sonodanite frame, concealed inside a rectangular building made from the densest local stone available. Dukat had been in several facilities of identical form and function, from Arawath to Orias, and each was the same. The uniformity was comforting, in its own way.

The doors opened and Dukat was waved through to the jagul’s office by a muscular glinn; and there he found Kell watching an oval holoframe, the transparent display hazing the air over his desk. Dukat saw grainy images, probably from the security monitors out on the embassy walls. A horde of Bajorans, a handful of them in Militia uniforms standing with their backs to the gates, the rest churning back and forth, shouting and brandishing pennants. The officer seemed to be only half interested in the screen, his attention wandering between that and a series of padds showing some kind of schematic.

He indicated the image. “Have I come at a bad time, Jagul Kell?”

“Dukat.” Kell drew out the name, ignoring the question. “Here you are. Welcome to Bajor.”

Dukat made a show of looking around. The jagul’s office was heavily decorated with thick hardwood paneling from Cuellar, and there were artworks that showed scenes of Cardassia Prime, a shelf of antique books. It was the polar opposite of the austerity of Dukat’s own duty room aboard the Kashai.“I feel as if I have not left the homeworld,” he replied.

Kell smirked. “High rank means men are granted allowances.” He shifted in his seat and pointedly did not offer Dukat the opportunity to take the empty chair across from his desk. Dukat studied the man. The stocky, uncompromising officer who had once commanded the Kornairewas still there, but Kell had grown more portly in the intervening years. An increase in girth was to be expected as a man became an elder, of course, but the jagul was still some time away from earning that level of distinction. The tailoring of his duty armor did its best to conceal it, but there was only so far it could go. Dukat kept a sneer from his lips, holding his contempt and faint disgust for the man in check. Is this what you have been doing in your glorious posting, Kell? Growing fat on rich alien food, guzzling their drink?