Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

The bridge of the freighter was as far from the clean, steely lines of the Vandir’s command deck as it was possible to be. The smell of stale food hung in the air along the cramped cylindrical bay, and the walls were a riot of bare cables where every inch of cosmetic paneling had been removed. The flight crew were on their knees, hands behind their heads, the four of them covered by a watchful gil with a phaser rifle. The captain—although the greasy little humanoid barely deserved such a title—stood, trembling slightly, with one of Dukat’s men holding a gun at his head.

The gul folded his arms. “I’m becoming bored,” he announced. “I thought you and your rusting scow might make an interesting diversion, but that’s waning.” He plucked at a bit of broken panel. “This ship is a mess. I’m disgusted by it.”

The Xepolite blinked, although his right eye was swelling shut; the injury had come from some small utterance the armed officer had taken exception to.

“Are you going to tell me why you broke from the spacelanes and tried to run for deep space, Hetman…?”

“Foroe,” husked the alien. “Uh, sir,” he added nervously.

“Well?”

“It was just a helm malfunction, like I told you,” he said thickly. “I was going to fix the problem—”

Dukat nodded and the officer with the gun smacked Foroe in the side of the head, staggering him. “You don’t seem to be listening to me, Hetman. I said I was getting bored. Bored with you, bored with this filthy ship, bored with hearing the same lies.” He stepped closer to the other man. “My men are searching all the decks, you do realize that? When they find whatever it is you are smuggling, you’ll be prosecuted not only for that crime but also for obstruction of justice. Under the weight of Cardassian law, that’s a very severe punishment.”

“We’re in Bajoran space, you can’t—”

Another nod, and Foroe was struck silent again. “Look around, Hetman. Do you really think this sector belongs to Bajor anymore?”

The Xepolite’s shoulders sank, and Dukat knew that it was almost over. In a moment, he will either beg for mercy or offer me a bribe.

“Look,” Foroe said in a low voice, “can’t we work out something here, captain to captain?”

Any reply Dukat was going to make was cut off by a chime from his comcuff. He tapped the bracelet. “Report.”

“Sir, this is Glinn Orloc. I’m in the secondary engineering spaces near the keel.”

Foroe failed to conceal the shock on his face, and Dukat smiled thinly. “What have you found, Glinn?”

“Sir, there’s a large concealed compartment, shielded with kelbonite. I have at least forty Bajorans of various ages down here.”

“Slaves?” Dukat said mildly.

“They’re refugees!” spat one of the bridge crew, and he was clubbed down for his outburst.

Dukat gave Foroe a measuring stare. “Your manifest says nothing about passengers, Hetman. That’s a very serious violation.”

Foroe’s voice took on a pleading tone. “They’re just civilians, that’s all. They can’t afford the exit permits to go offplanet. The security restrictions the Bajoran ministry have put in place are too strict.”

Dukat nodded. The limitation of unfettered movement by Bajorans had increased with Kubus Oak’s introduction of several “security acts,” creating a rise in incidents of people-smuggling. He studied the Xepolite; the hetman was doubtless earning a fine percentage in latinum for his part in this particular operation.

“Civilians,” repeated the gul. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re cell members working with the Circle or Tzenkethi interests, did that occur to you?” He loomed over the smaller man. “Or are youworking with the Tzenkethi? Is that why you tried to run?”

Foroe stared at the deck. “I…I panicked.”

Dukat raised his communicator to his lips. “And now you’re going to answer for your spinelessness.”

The Xepolite’s hand shot out and grabbed Dukat’s wrist. “Wait, no!” He cried out as the gun struck him again and he fell to the deck. “Wait,” he said, biting out the words. “Please! Look, I have information. I know something!”

The Cardassian crouched down until he was eye to eye with the freighter captain. “What could you possibly know that would be of interest to me?”

Foroe blinked back pain. “Passengers. Two Bajoran women, brought them from Draygo, they were bunked on the second tier.” He blinked. “There was something suspicious about them. I heard them talking during the trip. Something about Keeve Falor.”

Dukat stood up. “Really? And why should the name of a dissident exile be any concern of mine?” He waved him away. “Get him out of my sight.” Foroe shouted and protested all the way out of the room and down the corridor, his cries echoing and growing ever more strident. Dukat circled the bridge, thinking.

“Draygo,” said the armed officer. “That’s not a Bajoran colony.”

“Foroe thought he had something there,” Dukat mused.

“He genuinely believed it—it was clear on his face.” He paused. “Perhaps we should see. Our people do have a reputation for thoroughness to uphold, after all.”

The tram rolled into the long tunnel that passed under the City Oval, and Jekko shifted seats to sit next to Nechayev. His intonation was terse. “Listen to me, offworlder. The Cardassians are alreadyoccupying Bajor, it’s just a matter of visibility. You don’t see any tanks on the street corners, but believe me, the influence of those snake-faced aliens is everywhere. Every minister in the Chamber who might have stood against them has either fled to exile like Keeve, been threatened into silence, or bought out with money and promises. Lale is only a figurehead now, it’s Kubus Oak and his people who have the power, and they’re in the pockets of the Cardassians. Every day they’re bringing in more ‘cultural advisers’ and ‘contractors’ to the enclaves. It’s a silent invasion, and once that silence breaks it will shift the balance of power in this sector. Does your Federation want that?”

“Keep your voice down,” snapped Nechayev. “Listen to me, because I’m not going to waste time explaining it twice. Starfleet cannot intervene on Bajor without good cause or a formal request from someone in the Bajoran government.”

“Keeve Falor—”

“Is an exile on Valo II. His word’s not enough. I need indisputable proof to show my superiors before we can even thinkabout becoming involved.”

Jekko was silent for a moment. “You want proof? I’ll take you to the enclave outside the city and you can see it for yourself.”

Glinn Orloc stepped out of the cramped cabin and offered the tricorder to his commanding officer. “There is an anomaly, sir.”

Dukat glanced at the technician from the Vandir’s scientific division still working at the corners of the room with a sensor wand. “Explain.”

“A very faint trace of a cellular masking agent on one of the bunks.”

“Purpose?”

“The compound can camouflage the DNA profile of the user. It’s enough to fool a cursory scan. I’ve heard the Obsidian Order uses such things to insert spies in alien populations after they’ve been physically altered to resemble natives.”

“Which suggests there are two women down on the planet who only appearto be Bajoran,” said the gul.

Orloc nodded. “It would seem so.”

20

Darrah Mace crossed the atrium inside the entrance to the Naghai Keep and saw the group of priests entering one of the halls, the mutter of their conversation and the snapping of their wooden sandals echoing around him. A familiar face caught his eye and without thinking he called out a name. “Osen!”

Vedek Gar and his party halted, turning to face him. Darrah regretted the outburst immediately; the clerics gave him withering looks and he was reminded of his childhood, of the times when he was called to account at the temple school for a youthful imprudence. There was a moment when he thought Gar would just ignore him, but then a smile snapped on across the other man’s face and he crossed to the middle of the stone floor. “Mace,” he said with a nod. “Are you well? We haven’t spoken in so long.”

He nodded. “Yeah…” Suddenly he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Things have been so difficult recently,” Gar continued. “There’s so much to do.” He glanced at the other monks. “A lot of concerns.”

“I’m sure, uh, Vedek.” The title seemed strange when he tried to connect it to his old friend; but then, these days Gar was not the person he used to be. The passionate, witty cleric had changed, like so many things, in the wake of the attacks. Darrah had tried many times to place where the shift in their friendship had occurred, and it all came back to the night of the storm. Osen’s face, lit with panic.He searched the expression of the man in front of him and couldn’t see any remnant of that moment. Darrah had never spoken a word of Gar’s wild accusations that night, and Gar had never mentioned it again. Is that why our friendship has faded? Because I’m a reminder of that?

As much as Darrah didn’t want to admit it, the distance between the two old friends had become a chasm yawning between them. Darrah wished he’d said nothing, just let Gar walk on past and not notice him. Once upon a time they had been so easy in each other’s company, but now they were like strangers.

“I understand you were called to the Oralian encampment?” The vedek studied him. “Is Bennek well? I’m bringing him and some of his followers to the keep for a prayer meeting tonight.”

“There was some vandalism,” explained Darrah. “Ever since the Oralians were ejected by their fellow Cardassians, they’ve become targets for everyone who resents the Union presence.”

Gar shook his head. “How terrible. I hope there were no fatalities.”

“None.” Darrah licked his lips, finding it hard to keep a focus on the moment. He tried to change tack. “Vedek… Osen.”He sighed. “Perhaps we should meet, talk. Just you and me, like we used to?” The priest started to speak, but Darrah talked over him. “I haven’t been to temple in a long time, not since Karys left.” It was hard for him to admit it, and he felt the color rising in his cheeks. “I’m thinking I could use a little guidance.”

Gar patted him on the arm. “You should see a prylar,” he replied with a static smile.

“We’ve known each other since we were kids.” He felt cold, redundant. “You’re my priest and my friend, Osen.”

“But not anymore, Mace.” His fingers touched the ornamental metal ring fastening his robes across his chest that designated his ranking in the clergy. “My position means my time has turned to other, larger matters these days. I can’t minister to just one man. Bajor’s course is troubled, and it is important for me and the Vedek Assembly to keep a close hand on the helm.” He flashed the smile again.

“You understand that, don’t you? We all have our duties, our sacrifices to make.” Gar was moving away from him.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“When you took your vows, I told you that the worst thing about the priesthood was the politics of the clergy.” Darrah threw the words after him. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

Gar looked back. “I don’t recall.” He seemed almost condescending.

“You said that part didn’t matter. That individual faith was the most important thing.”

Gar made an amused noise. “Well. Times and attitudes change, Mace.” He bowed slightly. “Be well.”

The cluster of clerics entered the hall and the door closed, leaving Darrah alone in the sudden silence of the atrium.

Nothing could survive in the Tasak system. A few balls of rock, their atmospheres long since ripped away, and a couple of sterile gas giants orbited around the roiling red mass of the temperamental flare star, keeping their distance. Tasak was a wildly unpredictable solar formation, sometimes going for months without a grumble, other times spitting out promontories of gaseous plasma and frequencies of hard radiation roaring across the interstellar wave-bands. Any form of life that had the temerity to evolve on one of Tasak’s satellites was mercilessly bombarded by punishing storms of energy; and any ships that passed too near without resilient shields would find their crews poisoned. All the highly trafficked spacelanes in the Bajor sector gave Tasak a wide berth, but in spite of its lethality—in fact, becauseof it—the system had become an unofficial waypoint for ships engaged in less than legal endeavors.

Syjin had his courier concealed in the shadow of a shepherd moon orbiting Tasak VII, having taken great care to make sure the mass of the nickel-iron rock was between him and the star. He was working carefully at the warp field modulation controls, editing the engine output to make it fluctuate far beyond the programmed safety limits.

Like hiding a lit match in a bonfire.It was a tricky business, but if executed correctly, he would be able to make the ship’s ion trail vanish into the mess of radiation that blanketed the local area. It would then be a simple matter of setting off once again, safe in the knowledge that anyone tracking him would lose his trace and never be able to pick it up again. He’d be free and clear to head for Ajir and his rendezvous. The Bajoran pilot had done this several times in the past, but it never failed to rattle his nerves. The cockpit space of the little transport ship smelled sweaty from Syjin’s perspiration; it was hard to do the job with one eye on the warp matrix display and another on the sensors, watching for the first blush of hard gammas from a sudden radiation surge.

He was on the verge of completion when the scanner beeped, startling him so much he swore a gutter curse. Syjin glared at the screen. “What now?” he said aloud.

On the monitor there was a return from something close to Tasak VII. Not a radiation surge. A starship.It was moving quickly, under power. The configuration wasn’t one he recognized instantly. The pilot’s heart rate jumped. If it was Tzenkethi or Cardassian, if he was caught here by one of them, there would be nothing to stop him from being atomized and his remains would never be found. Another gruesome benefit of Tasak’s seething pool of radiation.

He began the restart sequence for the engines as a second beep sounded, this time from the communications system. Syjin blinked and gingerly answered the hail. “Uh. Hello?”

A clipped voice responded over a static-laced channel. “Unidentified vessel, this is the Federation starshipGettysburg. We have detected energy fluctuations in your warp core. Are you experiencing difficulties? We stand ready to assist you, should you require it.”

“Starfleet?” Syjin gaped. “What are you doing out here?” He asked the question without thinking.

The concise, tight diction sounded like a Vulcan’s. “We are engaged on a mapping mission. Do you require assistance?”

A grin split Syjin’s features. A Federation starship, this deep into the Bajor sector, plotting stars? Syjin’s career had taught him how to both present and detect falsehoods, and he knew a poor one when he heard it. It wasn’t unknown for Starfleet to have vessels out in the deeps, conducting other so-called “mapping missions” and taking note of Cardassian ship movements. The ongoing cold war between the Union and the Federation was well known to every commercial pilot in the sector. He muted the communicator and thought aloud. “What are they reallydoing here? Huh. Do I actually want to know?”

“Unidentified vessel, please state your designation and planet of origin.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’m going to be doing that.” It was embarrassing, in a darkly comic sort of way. Syjin wasn’t supposed to be here, but then, neither was the Gettysburg.The pilot toggled the channel open again. “We’re fine,” he said, “we’re all fine here…” He trailed off, feeling awkward. “How are you?”

There was a pause. “We are also…fine.”

The warp matrix modifications were complete, and Syjin slipped into his acceleration couch and brought the engines to power. “Great,” he replied. “Well, uh, good-bye, then!” Before anything else could happen he let his ship drop away from the shepherd moon and pushed it to warp three. In twelve hours he’d be at Ajir, where Grek and his new cargo would be waiting for him.

On the scanner the Gettysburgreceded into the clutter of Tasak’s radiation backwash. “If you didn’t see me, I didn’t see you,” he declared.

In his chambers, Jas Holza listened to the law officer deliver his report with only half an ear. Darrah Mace was a capable man, if a little too dogged for his own good. He was reliable. The minister studied him and wondered if that had been where he had made his mistakes. I don’t have enough reliable men. Or perhaps it is becauseI am not a reliable man.Jas reached for the glass of springwine and drained it in a gulp. The drink burned warmly in his gullet, but the taste faded fast. He was losing his appreciation for this particular vintage.

“You’ve no leads on the matter of the Oralians, then?” Jas asked, breaking into the middle of Darrah’s statement.

“Nothing at all?”

The chief inspector shook his head. “They have no security out there, Minister. If I had a few more men…Perhaps if you could request that the Militia send some officers to me on assignment from one of the other districts…”

Jas sniffed. “Work with what you have, Darrah. Coldri and his staff have adopted a bunker mentality in recent months. They won’t be relaxing that anytime soon.”

The lawman chewed his lip, and Jas imagined what he might be thinking. No surprise there, considering the way that the Militia is continually being marginalized.Only a few days ago, Jas had been informed in minutes from the Chamber of Ministers that Kubus Oak had accepted Cardassian military escorts for his Bajoran cargo vessels, instead of the more usual Militia-crewed ships. And then there were the accusations in the media that Jaro Essa had been involved in the creation of a plan for a military coup; Jaro was protesting his innocence, and no concrete evidence had been uncovered as yet, but the claim trailed him in everything he did. Coldri had already distanced himself from the ambitious young officer, and several newsfeeds—those that Kubus seemed to have an indirect investment in—were stirring up public disenchantment. Rumor had it that Jaro was going to join Keeve Falor and the thousands of others who had gone into voluntary exile offplanet. A fate I may soon share myself.

He looked up and realized that he hadn’t been listening. “Pardon me, Inspector, my attention wandered. Please repeat yourself.” Jas poured another generous glass of springwine.

“I said, sir, that the incidents of civil unrest within the city limits are being dealt with, but the situation isn’t improving.”

Jas waved a hand at him. “You want stricter powers for arrest and sentencing? Very well. You have them. Do what is required. I want my city held firm.” He sipped from the glass. “That is the least I must have…”

“Minister, with all due respect, locking people up and harsher policing won’t solve this problem. The people need to know that they are being heard.” Darrah stepped closer to Jas’s desk. “The situation is fragile. People are falling into the old D’jarradivisions. The high-caste citizens are afraid, the low-castes think they’re being sold out. Perhaps, if you could make a statement, sir, something visible.”

“No, I must concentrate on the important matters.” Jas shook his head. “Lonnic was always so much better at navigating these kinds of problems for me,” he added as an afterthought.

Darrah frowned. “Minister, what’s more important than your city?”

The lawman’s tone made him bristle. “I don’t presume to expect a Ke’lorato understand the issues that occupy my days!” Anger came from nowhere, hot and potent. “Do you think that if I had the power to do more, I would not? I am at my limits!” Just as quickly, the rage abated. “I’m empty. I have nothing with which to fight.”

“Sir—” began Darrah.

Jas indicated the door with his glass, ignoring him.

“Thank you for your report, Chief Inspector. Your input is appreciated, but I’m afraid I must cut this short. I have a meeting in Ashalla tonight. I have…I have to prepare.”

He drained the glass, hardly noticing the man leave. Jas’s sullen mood took full hold. Another crisis meeting in the Chamber of Ministers,he mused, another crisis to go with this crisis and that crisis, over and over. Our freedoms cut away, another piece of meat flensed from the carcass of the governing edicts of the Republics…

Jas examined the glass, seeing himself like the empty vessel, filling with dread as easily as he filled it with wine. His hands trembled a little. Kubus Oak would be waiting for him in Ashalla, as he had been every other time; and on this occasion, just as before, the man would take another piece of him. With the Cardassian influence he had behind him strengthened, the influence Kubus had for so long kept concealed, the minister from Qui’al was consolidating his power base. Talk abounded among the junior politicians that Lale would not seek reelection after his second term concluded and that it would be Kubus in the First Minister’s place. Jas tried to recall the time when he had wanted that role for himself, but now it seemed like some childish fancy. The Jas clan’s small power was waning as Kubus bought out its holdings, diminishing Jas’s authority with each passing month. How did I come to this?

“Soon there will be nothing left but these old walls.” He rocked back in his chair and spoke to the keep itself. “This alone is ceded to me by my birthright, with no question of its being taken from me.” In the old times, in the era of the First Republic, Kubus would have led an army to the gates of the keep and battered them down, then murdered Holza and his family and made himself city-lord. Thousands of years later, things were so much more civilized. “Today,” Jas grumbled, “today he will cut me with paper and strangle me with lines of influence. Bleed my money. Kill me without killing me.”

Jas listed slightly as he got up and walked to the nearest wall, rubbing his fingers down it. “Old friends,” he told the stones, “if nothing else, I have at least learned an important truth. I am a coward. And I am afraid I may be forced to abandon you.”

Dukat glanced up and tapped the intercom panel at the sound of the chime. “This is the gul.”

Tunol was uncharacteristically hesitant in her reply. “Sir, someone has just transported aboard.”

“From Bajor?”

“I’m…not quite sure. The carrier wave was phase-scrambled.”

That piece of information was all that he needed. Dukat’s lips twisted. “Send them to my duty room.”

“She’s already on her way, sir.”

Dukat’s grimace turned to hard granite, and he turned the padds on his desk facedown, pausing only to flick a spot of dust from the dull metal of his armor.

The door to his chamber hissed open, and Rhan Ico stood outside, flanked by two troopers. She dismissed them without a word and entered the room. Dukat couldn’t be sure which he found more irritating: that she entered without his permission or that the two gils obeyed her without question.

“Thank you for receiving me, Gul Dukat.” Ico took a chair and smiled thinly.

Dukat noticed that the automatic security subroutines built into the consoles of his duty office had not reacted to her presence; normally, if a member of the Ministry of Science, a civilian, walked into the chambers of a ranking military officer, each one would go blank to conceal data outside her purview. Instead, every screen remained active, silently showing Dukat just how high Ico’s clearance went.

He was in no mood for games. “What do you want, Ico?” Dukat was brusque and distrustful.

She frowned slightly, as if disappointed that he wasn’t about to engage in the usual rounds of wordplay and dissembling. “I’m aware of the contents of your mission orders,” Ico said without further preamble. “It seems that, once more, we share common goals.”

Dukat’s eyes narrowed. “However true you may think that is, I don’t intend to repeat past mistakes with you.”

“On the contrary,” she countered, “our last association was a great success.”

“For you, perhaps. Tell me, how many more of those pretty baubles have you purloined since then?”

Ico spoke as if Dukat had said nothing. “I know what you are looking for.”

“A way to terminate you and all your kind?”

She sniffed, smiling slightly, and Dukat chided himself for allowing her to draw from him that flash of annoyance.

“The passengers,” she went on, “from the Xepolite transport.”

“Ah,” said Dukat, returning a cold, feral smile of his own. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions that there are agents on board the Vandirreporting to the Obsidian Order.”

Ico laughed. It was a short, unlovely sound. “I have heard it said that organization has operatives on everyship in the Union fleet, from the lowliest fuel tender to the proudest dreadnought.” She cocked her head. “But to continue. The masking compound? It is of Federation origin, a tool utilized by Starfleet Intelligence.”

Dukat schooled his expression carefully. Starfleet agents posing as Bajorans, on-planet at a critical juncture such as this one.It was a worst-case scenario brought to life.

“Clearly, they must be dealt with as soon as possible,” Ico went on.

Dukat kept himself in check, resisting the urge to immediately call an alert and begin an aggressive search. “Why are you telling me this? I’d imagine you much prefer to keep the kudos from such a capture to yourself.”

She inclined her head. “A number of reasons. You’re quite intelligent for a military officer, Dukat. You would have come to the same conclusions in due time. There are matters that I have currently in hand that require the majority of my attention. And, of course, Jagul Kell’s lamentably shortsighted self-interest. He’s quite incapable of managing such a situation. I think it would be best if he remained uninformed about this development for the time being.”

“You want me and my men to do your work for you?”

She smiled coolly. “Isn’t that always the way?”

He wanted to punch that smile down her throat. “I don’t need your help.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she warned. “I’m giving you a gift.”

“And what do you want in return?”

Ico got to her feet. “Why, the same thing that you do, Skrain. A triumphant Cardassia, and a compliant Bajor.” She tapped a control on her comcuff and vanished in the haze of a transporter beam.

The evening had drawn into night as they left the great hall of the keep, the Bajoran clerics and the party of Oralians walking side by side without really mingling. Vedek Gar had led the meeting with a reading from Yalar’s New Insights, choosing a parable that Bennek had considered a somewhat uninspired work, while in turn the Cardassian cleric had performed a recitation with Tima, a piece telling the story of the Birth of the Fourth Fate. Even from behind his mask, Bennek had not been able to miss the cold expressions directed toward the woman by some of the Bajoran priests. I wonder, do they disapprove because of her adherence to the Way, or because she is my lover?He imagined he would never know for sure. Tima glanced at him and gave a wan smile, concealing a multitude of subtle signals. She feels the same way that I do; where once we were greeted as honored brothers and sisters, now we have become unwelcome. Oralius has lost purchase on her birthworld, and the same will happen on Bajor, I see it coming.

“Would you join me on the balcony?” asked Gar. “The night is warm. I will have refreshments brought to us.”

Bennek nodded. “I would like that.” He followed the Bajoran out of the stained-glass doors, and a light breeze pulled at his robes. The Oralian gathered them in his hands and took the proffered seat at the stone table under the stars. The sky was scattered with light cloud and patches of darkness. “I am sorry that Vedek Arin was not able to be here tonight,” he continued.

“He’s in Kiessa,” said Gar lightly. “Matters of the church. I’m sure you understand.”

Tima shot Bennek another look. Before the flyer had arrived at the camp to bring them to the Naghai Keep, she had predicted that Arin would not be present. The man had been slowly aligning himself with the interests of Kubus Oak over the past few months. It was no secret that Kubus’s interests were in concert with the Union’s, and there was no place for the Oralians there. Vedek Gar is the only ally we have now,he reflected, feeling bleak.

A servant brought hot dekatea and a plate of veklava;the sight of the food brought a sour taste to Bennek’s lips as he thought of the burned-out storehouse in the camp, the katterpods and bread all ruined.

Gar poured the tea and cupped the stone mug in his hands, savoring the woody smell. “Bennek, I am glad you came here. I know about your recent problems, about the firebombing and the intimidation. I know you must find it troubling to venture from the safety of your settlement.”

“Such as it is,” said Tima.

“Your people are embattled, my friend,” he continued.

“And it pains me to think that the Way may die out.” Gar shook his head sadly. “Your numbers have diminished, and they continue to do so, yes? I have heard that many have left the Way and renounced their faith.”

Bennek stiffened. How does he know about that? I have kept that sordid fact a closely guarded secret!But it was true. On some level the cleric could understand the men and women who fled the camps and gave up their church so that they could eat again, be free again, be considered Cardassianagain. “This is a troubling time for the children of Oralius,” he admitted. “But she grants us the Way, and she will show us a path through adversity.”

Gar leaned forward. “Perhaps she already has.”

“I do not follow you.”

“Perhaps you should,” said the other priest. “We have often spoken of how your worship of Oralius and our devotion to the Prophets are but two sides of the same coin. There are those on Bajor who have come to feel your faith is like an unwanted tenant, that its presence will somehow dilute the veneration of the Celestial Temple.” His gaze passed over Tima, and the implication was clear; as one of the handful of Bajoran Oralians, she embodied that concern. “We both know that is untrue, but how can we convince the people otherwise?”