Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Mace gave a weak smile. “We’re sorry, son.” He paused for a moment, and then threw off his duty jacket, reaching for a clean-cut black shirt instead. “C’mon, everyone finish getting dressed. If we stay here talking all night, we’ll miss the ceremony and all the toasted buns will be sold by the time we get there.”

A grin emerged on Bajin’s face. “Okay.”

He glanced at Karys. “Okay?”

She stood and helped him button the shirt, the corners of her mouth quirking upward for the first time. “Okay.”

Sunset had turned the sky a gorgeous burnt umber by the time they reached the City Oval. In every boulevard in every district of Korto, street parties were gearing up, and there was an atmosphere of infectious excitement that was hard to ignore. On the breeze there were the smells of cooking food, bateretincense, and hot, sugary snacks. Voices were raised in song, all of it good-natured if not always tuneful; here and there massive streetscreens were showing imagery from other festivals in other cities, with scenes from the Grand Avenue of Lights in Ashalla, the flame dancers on Tilar’s beaches, even shots via subspace of celebrations on Prophet’s Landing and Andros.

Here in Korto it seemed as if the entire population had emptied out of the tenements and come to fill the streets. They skirted past a group of performers who played out one of Lupar’s Summer Tales, the one with the fisherman and the angry sea serpent.

The children laughed and danced around them, play-fighting and making faces. Darrah shooed them forward every time they tried to dawdle around the stalls selling jumjaon sticks or trinkets for the festival. Nell had already made him buy her a glow-streamer, and the little girl cut outlines in the air with it.

Just watching her and Bajin brought him a good mood, and it eased the tension that Darrah had been feeling all week, but it was still difficult for him to ease back from being a police officer, and he felt a little foolish in the black shirt, as if he were making some half hearted effort at going undercover. He was so used to prowling the festival and having the crowds part dutifully around the uniform he wore. It felt odd to go civilian, and he had to rein in his natural reflex to scrutinize the revelers, looking for shifty expressions and lawbreakers in the making. He tried to relax.

His work, his conflicts with Karys, and now this new thing about the aliens visiting—what he needed right now was a few hours to breathe, to get it out of his system. He glanced at his wife. She was right, really. She was right about most things, and despite how annoying that could be at times, it was one of the reasons why he loved her so much. Karys was right when she told him that the Militia was taking over his life.

But then there were the otherthings she said. She was always telling him that he was going nowhere. She wanted him to push for a promotion. She wanted him to do better so they could move from the apartment block near the canals and get a better place, a real home, in the hills. Darrah wanted those things just as much as Karys did, but she didn’t seem to understand that advancements didn’t happen overnight. Hard work brings rewards—that was the ethic he’d been brought up with as a Ke’lora,the D’jarrathat encompassed the families of laborers, lawmen, and craftsmen. Unaware that he was watching her, his wife brushed her straight black hair over her shoulder, revealing her silver earring against the tawny skin of her face. Although they were married, one of the adornments on Karys’s ear still reflected the D’jarrashe had been born into, the artistic Ih’valla.She had never made an issue of it in all the years they had been together, but Karys had married below her station when she had accepted Darrah’s proposal. Her clan had made it difficult for them at first; it was only with the birth of Bajin that Darrah had finally been considered an “acceptable” husband.

They crossed through a cordon outside the edge of the Oval, one of the watchmen on duty recognizing Darrah and raising an eyebrow at his choice of clothing, but saying nothing. Only the more moneyed clans and those of the upper tiers of the D’jarras were allowed this far. In other circumstances, not even an Ih’vallaand certainly not a Ke’lorawould have been allowed inside the perimeter—but some things transcended the borders of caste, and being a senior law enforcer was one of them. As much as Karys might quietly dislike the commonplace life she led as a constable’s wife, at times like this Darrah imagined she was quite happy with it.

They halted in front of the massive brass and iron brazier at the foot of the bantacaspire. Bajin kept playing with his hair, deliberately mussing it, so Darrah pressed a couple of litas into the lad’s hand and sent him off to get buns. Nell trailed after him, singing a nursery rhyme about the Celestial Temple.

Karys took his hand. “What’s on your scroll this year?” she asked him.

Mace fingered the ceremonial paper in his pocket. “Ah. The usual. I’m asking the Prophets to make sure my children don’t age me too early, to see that anyone who shoots at me has lousy aim, to make my debts go away…”

She lowered her voice. “You know, Mother made the offer again.”

He put a finger on her lips. “We’re not taking her money, Karys. We’ve been through this. I don’t care how many sculptures she’s sold, I’m not going to owe her.”

For a second, he thought she was going to argue, but then his wife sighed. “Let’s not fight about this again. Not tonight. Can we talk about it some other time?”

“All right,” Mace agreed, but even as he said it he resolved not to be shifted on the issue.

She tilted her head back to let her gaze range up the sides of the spire, and Mace did the same. Streamers in red and gold hung down from the stone obelisk and fluttered in the cool evening breeze. Carved from stone blocks that were so finely crafted that they locked together without need of cement or mortar, the bantacawas said to mark the place of a settlement in relationship to the rest of the universe. Darrah saw that the stars were coming out overhead, and he wondered if that could be true. If what Lonnic and Gar had told him about the Cardassians was accurate, then very soon Korto would indeed be marked as an important place, known out there as well as down here. The thought of the aliens coming to Bajor, of them standing where he stood now, sent a chill snaking down Mace’s back. Things will change,he told himself, but I’m not sure how.

Karys squeezed his hand, sensing that something was troubling him. “I’m glad that you came tonight.”

“Me too,” he admitted, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Ah, young love,” said Lonnic as she approached. “It’s a delight to see.”

Mace’s wife broke into a grin and gave the other woman a brief hug of greeting. “Good to see you, Tomo.” She gestured at her formal dress. “You’re as elegant as ever.”

“Too kind,” Lonnic demurred.

“Thank you for letting my husband off his duties early,” she added. “It’s very generous of Minister Jas.”

“Generous, yes.” Tomo eyed Mace, who maintained an air of blank innocence. “That’s one way to look at it.” She leaned closer to Darrah and lowered her voice. “You owe Proka a drink, I would say. He covered for you at the keep.”

Mace nodded slightly. “I appreciate it.”

Tomo smiled thinly. “Don’t worry. After spending thirty seconds in the same room as Kubus Oak, I don’t think I would have wanted to ferry him around either. He’s gone back to Qui’al, thank the Prophets.”

“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him, though,” Darrah opined. “Where’s the minister?”

She pointed along the bantaca’s steps to where a temporary podium had been set up. Jas Holza was behind it, waving to the crowds and beaming into the lenses of a dozen camera drones. “Right there. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

Mace turned back to his wife as the children came swarming around them, faces sticky with icing. “Did you bring us buns?” he asked Bajin.

Licking powdered sugar off his lips, the boy gave him the same innocent look Darrah had shown Lonnic only moments earlier. “Oh. Did you want some too?”

Jas Holza placed the padd containing his speech on the lectern in front of him and waved as the illuminators came up to full strength. A blink of indicators on the drifting orbs of the camera drones showed him that he was now being broadcast across the city and the district, and it pleased him to hear Korto quieted as he started his address. For all his problems in the greater political arena, at least in the city of his birth his people still respected him.

“Peldor Joi,my friends,” he began. “It gives me great pleasure to stand before you today as Presider of Korto’s Gratitude Festival. Ours is a city of proud and hardworking people, an example of Bajoran endeavor that shines like a jewel in Kendra’s beautiful countryside.” He smiled slightly. “But we all know, whatever circumstances our D’jarras saw us born to, from the lowliest man to the most noble, that no life goes on without regrets. No great city like ours is built without hardship.” A swell of polite agreement crossed the crowd, and Jas scanned their faces, gauging their emotions. “All of us have worked hard this year, and tonight we come together to do two things.” He took an ornate scroll trimmed with latinum leafing from his pocket. “We cast our troubles to the air by writing them upon our renewal scrolls and letting the fires consume them; and then we give thanks to the Prophets for watching over us for all the good fortune we have had in the year passed by, and in hopes for all the promise yet to come.”

Jas stepped down from the podium and walked to the giant brazier, pausing to take a stone flask from Vedek Cotor. The camera drones moved with him in a slow, humming halo. He paused at the lip of the cauldron and spoke in a firm, confident voice, the sensor pickups in the drones amplifying his words for the whole city to hear. “Tesra peldo, impatri bren,”Jas began, speaking the words of the benediction in Old High Bajoran. “Bentel vetan, ullon sten.”With a confident flick of his thumb, Jas popped open the stopper on the flask of consecrated oil and swirled the liquid around. Exposed to oxygen, it immediately puffed into smoky orange flame. Keeping his hand steady, the minister let the fluid stream out over the lip of the great brazier, and with a thump of displaced air the nyawood and straw inside caught alight. Sparks jumped and curled into the evening, and applause streamed behind it. All across Bajor, other Presiders in other cities would be doing the same thing—but now Jas did something different.

In previous years, the Presider would step forward and toss the first scroll into the fire to symbolize the proper start of the festivities; Jas did not. He hesitated, enjoying the moment of mild surprise he engendered. “My friends,” he called out, “we write our dilemmas upon the scrolls and as they turn to ashes in these sanctified flames, so do our troubles. But tonight, before I throw my scroll into the fire, I have something important to add to it.” From a pouch in his belt, Jas produced a stylus and unrolled his paper. The crowd was watching him intently now; this was a break with tradition, and to many it would be considered a breach of privacy. The words on each person’s scroll were a personal thing, to be known only to the one who wrote them and the Prophets who looked on from the Celestial Temple. Yet, here was Korto’s minister, openly showing what he was to write. With care, so that the camera drones could see what he was doing, Jas drew the character for “isolation” in thick, deliberate lines and presented it to the air. Then, with a twist of his wrist, he tossed the paper into the rumbling brazier, and the scroll was flashed into ashes.

“Tonight, I cast Bajor’s isolation to the fires, and I urge you all to join me and do the same.” He met the cameras with a strong smile. “In two days, Korto will take back some of her sons who were lost in the depths of space, and it will welcome those who bring their remains home to us. These people are not of our world. Some of us are afraid of them, of what they represent. Some feel they come with avarice.” He shook his head. There was silence all around him now, save for the low crackle of the burning nyawood. The doubts Holza had felt speaking before Verin and again with Kubus were gone. His jaw stiffened. First it had been the old leader of the council attempting to push Holza from the center of these important events; and then Kubus, parlaying his business connections to the aliens in order to strengthen his own position. He had no doubt that each of them thought Jas to be unsuited to the challenges ahead, that they were the better men to take the helm. That will not be allowed to happen.Korto would be the fulcrum point for change on Bajor, he would see to it. The thought made Holza feel potent and strong, the certainty and confidence propelling him forward. “Some have nothing but distrust for outsiders. But I believe otherwise. I have seen that these visitors have their own path, just as we have ours granted by the Prophets. I believe that we can learn from them and forge a new friendship. I will welcome them. Korto will welcome them. And if the Prophets will it, then so Bajor will welcome the people of Cardassia to our shores.”

The moment the alien name left his lips there was a ripple of astonishment that radiated out around him. Jas nodded as if to say, Yes, you heard correctly.“Mark this day well, my friends,” he told them. “Bajor is about to enter a new era.”

The applause began, and the minister stepped back as scroll after scroll fell into the brazier, lighting puffs of flame as they were consumed.

4

“Slow and steady, Dukat,” said Kell from behind him. “We don’t want to alarm the natives.”

“As you wish, Gul.” Dukat kept his expression neutral as he nodded to the young glinn in the pilot’s couch. The junior officer eased back a little on the cutter’s thrusters, dropping the slab-shaped vessel’s airspeed. It wasn’t as if they had been hurtling through the sky at any great speed, but Kell was the kind of commander who liked to micromanage his crew, to be seen to be doing something even when there was nothing to be done. The gul drew back into the main compartment of the Kornaire’s landing ship, to where the rest of the diplomatic party were seated. Dukat had a glimpse of the Oralians, Hadlo and Bennek and a couple more of their number with hooded heads bowed. Are they praying for a safe landing? The flight isn’tthat bumpy.Seated by Professor Ico’s side, Pa’Dar caught Dukat’s eye and threw him a nod before he went back to looking out through one of the armored portholes.

Dukat checked the glinn’s course and saw she was keeping perfectly to the prescribed air corridor that the Bajorans had transmitted to them. Coming in over that curious blue-green ocean, they were now flying upriver toward their final destination. A flight of swift, needle-hulled aircraft were moving in echelon a few hundred decas above them, an escort of atmospheric fighters from the Militia’s Aerial Guard. The shuttle’s passive sensors showed him exactly where each flyer was, and he had no doubt that the men piloting those planes had one hand on their active scanner controls, ready to illuminate the ship with targeting systems if they diverged from their course by so much as a wing’s span. The Cardassian smiled thinly. If the roles had been reversed, he would have done the same—then Dukat corrected himself. No, I would never allow one of them to set foot on Cardassia. Not unless they were under guns or in chains.

“Estimated time of arrival is seven metrics, Dalin,” said the pilot.

Dukat nodded. “Look sharp. Your landing will be the first impression we make, so do it with skill.”

“I will, sir.”

Dukat peered out of the cutter’s forward canopy and saw the Bajoran metropolis through the wisps of low-lying cloud. The colors, like the teal ocean, seemed peculiar to the eyes of a man used to the ashen gray and rusty umber of Cardassian cityscapes. Lush parkland of a kind that could never survive on Cardassia Prime’s water-scarce continents was everywhere, each major artery lined with trees and great square commons laid out over the radial terraced districts. The buildings were largely of a uniform red-gold hue, most likely made from some kind of local stone, and there were spires and minarets on each intersection. Dukat saw nothing like the imposing towers and majestic arcs of his homeworld’s architecture. Instead, the Bajorans favored domes that lay wide and low to the ground, or glassy orbs that seemed too fragile to be dwellings. With a practiced soldier’s eye, the dalin examined the scope of Korto, thinking of the city in the guise of an invader. What forces would a commander need to commit to take a conurbation like this one? Where would he need to strike to cut off lines of supply, yet ensure that the prize remained intact?

Filing away his impressions for later deliberation, he shifted back in his acceleration chair as the shuttle turned gently into a banking maneuver, toward the towering castle on the hill overshadowing the city.

“Beginning final descent,” said the pilot, and Dukat tapped the intercom and repeated the report to the rest of the passengers.

The shuttle slowed, coming over the walls of the Naghai Keep to stop in a hover above an open space in the broad inner courtyard. Dukat saw a pavilion down there, a small crowd of overdressed Bajorans looking up at them and shielding their eyes. To one side, beneath a set of ornamental arches, there was a raised dais and on it shrouded shapes that could only be the bodies of men. The white cloths that concealed the corpses fluttered as the shuttle dropped gently to the ground, the ship’s repulsors casting up small cyclones of air and dust.

The crew of the Bajoran scoutship had been turned over to the locals so that they could prepare for whatever death rituals were needed. He wondered idly if the Bajorans had examined the bodies as thoroughly as the Cardassians had before returning them. He made a mental note to ask Pa’Dar later if they had gleaned anything interesting.

Settling on its landing struts with a hiss of hydraulics, the cutter touched down with barely a tremor of motion, and Dukat inclined his head at the glinn in a gesture of praise before rising from his station. He checked the hang of his duty armor and the flimsy peace-bond seal over the butt of the phaser pistol in his belt holster, then crossed to Kell’s side.

The gul shot Hadlo a hard look as the elderly priest paused on the threshold of the hatchway. “I believe it would be best if I exited first, cleric.”

Hadlo’s lined face hardened. “What sort of message does that send to these people, Gul Kell?”

“Precisely the one I wantto send,” Kell replied, and thumbed the control that opened the wide gull-wing door.

Dukat was right behind him, and the rush of Bajoran atmosphere welled up and into the shuttle’s interior, washing over the dalin’s face. It was cool and sweet, lacking the dry edge of home.

Pa’Dar and Ico were the last to disembark, followed by two grim-faced glinns who wore the watchful look of men waiting in vain for a threat to emerge where none was lurking. Kell and Dukat, there in their black battle gear, next to the pastel robes of Hadlo, Bennek, and the other Oralians, and now the two scientists in the neutral blues and grays of their duty uniforms; Pa’Dar wondered what the natives would make of them, the three groups within the diplomatic mission all alien, all different.

The clothing worn by the Bajorans was a contrast as well. They seemed to favor earth tones, brown and ochre that reminded the scientist of the stonework of the city. Perhaps the colors are supposed to represent some sort of metaphorical link between the people and their world?It was an interesting hypothesis, and one that Pa’Dar might share with Ico when they returned to the Kornaire,if, of course, she could spare him the time. Of late, as the ship had come closer and closer to Bajor, his supervisor had been harder to pin down, always engaged in communications with the homeworld, distracted by assignments she was unwilling to discuss. Secrecy was part and parcel of life in service to the Cardassian government, but Ico’s recent behavior had gone beyond that. He wondered idly if she were doing something illicit, perhaps engaging in a liaison with one of the ship’s crew members.

Pa’Dar dismissed the thoughts and turned his attention back to the aliens. He was being provided with a unique opportunity here, and he would be remiss if he didn’t make the most of it. His family were politicians and administrators back on the homeworld, and they had made no attempt to hide their disapproval of his choice of an academic career path. At best, his parents saw themselves as indulging a youthful caprice that they fully expected Kotan to grow out of in due course; the Bajor mission was a chance to prove them wrong, to show them that he could do something of value from the halls of the science ministry.

Pa’Dar studied the group of Bajorans who approached them from the larger group. At their head were a trio of males in ornate tunics of varying cut, one who clearly had assumed the mantle of command bearing a weathered face, the others following a step behind. Past them, there were three more in robes that shared some similarity to the dress of the Oralian clerics, although the Bajorans wore skullcaps or headgear that arched over their odd, wrinkled brows instead of hoods. And at the rear, a group of figures in what were unmistakably military uniforms. The sketchy cultural briefing Pa’Dar had absorbed before the mission’s departure told him that much, but he was unsure how to interpret the colors of the tunics or the oval gold insignia on the collars. He elected to avoid addressing any of the Bajoran soldiers in the event he mistook a rank and offended one of them.

“Gul Kell, I am Verin Kolek, First Minister of Bajor,” said the one with the heavily lined face. His voice had the timbre of age and acumen. Pa’Dar had watched the feed from the Kornaire’s communications a few days earlier, but until he stood here, staring at the alien, he had not truly understood how peculiar the Bajorans looked. Their flesh, with hues ranging from pinkish yellow to dark ebony, were nothing like the stony, harmonious gray of his own species; and the faces were so smooth and uncharacterful, with only a small patch of nasal ridges to suggest anything like the fine ropes of muscle and bone that adorned the Cardassian aspect. The one who called himself Verin was an elder, and Pa’Dar wondered how old he could be. Cardassians aged at a steady, stately pace, growing more regal as they did so—but this alien seemed almost wizened by comparison. And he is their ruler? Are all their leaders so decrepit?

The minister was still speaking, indicating the younger men standing with him. “This is Kubus Oak, whom I believe your people have already met, and Jas Holza, whose hospitality we all share today.” He gestured to the robed Bajorans, beginning with the lone female. “This is the honored Kai Meressa, and her adjutants Vedek Cotor and Prylar Gar.” Finally, it was the turn of the soldiers. “Our Militia representatives, Jaro Essa and Coldri Senn.”

The Kornaire’s commander nodded with grave solemnity, and Pa’Dar wondered if the Bajorans detected the element of careful pretense beneath the motion. “I greet you in the name of the Cardassian Union and the Detapa Council. We regret that it must be under such circumstances as these”—he gestured toward the arched enclosure where the dead bodies were lying—“but it is Cardassia’s fervent hope that on the foundation of such a tragedy our two peoples may come to better know each other as interstellar neighbors.” He took a breath. “This is my first officer Dalin Dukat, and these are representatives of our Ministry of Science and the Oralian Way.”

The woman Verin had called the kai stepped forward and bowed. “I welcome you to our world in the name of the Prophets,” she began. Her voice was clear and melodic, and it carried across the courtyard. She looked to Hadlo and the other clerics. “Before we go any further, please let me express my personal delight in meeting a deputation from the followers of Oralius.”

“You know of our faith?” said Bennek.

“Indeed,” said the kai. “Our ecumenical scholars study the beliefs of many worlds, and we have come to understand that our faith can learn great lessons from those of other beings. I hope that during your visit here we will be able to speak of Oralius’s teachings. We are interested to learn more of Cardassian spirituality.”

Pa’Dar could see that Hadlo was surprised by the woman’s openness. On Cardassia, matters of so-called faith—such as they were in these more enlightened times—did not usually find such a warm response from outsiders. The cleric nodded woodenly. “Of…of course. And I too would be fascinated to learn more about your Prophets.”

Meressa glanced at Verin and Jas. “With the minister’s permission, we will speak of them now.”

Jas returned a nod. “Please, Kai, you may begin at your discretion.”

The woman bowed slightly, and the troupe of alien priests moved to join several others of their number near the shrouded bodies.

The Bajorans made a sign over their chests. “Before we proceed, the kai will perform a blessing for the spirits of the Eleda’s crewmen,” explained the younger minister.

Bennek craned forward to get a better look at the Bajorans, and Hadlo shot him a terse glance. “Show decorum,” rumbled the old cleric.

“Of course,” Bennek replied, but the priest’s manner belied his statement. Bennek was fascinated by the aliens, and had been ever since the Oralians were approached to join the Kornaire’s mission. What he had seen of Bajor through glimpses of the wrecked ship and the dead men was compelling. Bennek had never set foot off Cardassia Prime in all his twenty-seven years, spending much of his life buried in Oralian scriptures and tomes from the ancient Hebitians. He had grown up steeped in the past of his planet, never once considering how life might exist in other places; but a chance moment, accompanying Hadlo when the cleric had been allowed to examine the Eledacrew’s personal effects, had sparked something in him. Among the wreckage of the ship were the remains of a small alcove containing a portable shrine, and there he had come across fragments of a votive icon that resembled—albeit only slightly—a Face of the Fates. He remembered the physical shock at seeing it. Hadlo had dismissed the moment, describing it as a mere coincidence and nothing more, but Bennek couldn’t shake the sense that there was something greater to the similarity. Oralius lives above all,he had reasoned. Is it so strange to imagine she might have touched the souls of other beings as well as Cardassians?

The daring thrill he felt at actually entertaining so radical a thought coursed through him once again. It was something he would never have dared to voice in the chapels of the Way—the conservative nature of his fellow believers was well known to him—but out here, far from home…Suddenly, the possibility seemed real. He watched Kai Meressa and the other Bajoran priests making patterns in the air with their hands. Bennek was energized by the idea of learning everything he could about these “Prophets,” and perhaps taking the first step toward bringing these aliens to the light of the Way.

The youngest of the Bajoran clerics, the one the First Minister had introduced as Prylar Gar, saw Bennek watching him and inclined his head with a cautious smile. He wondered if Gar was thinking the same thoughts. The kai took lit tapers from two females in simple shift dresses and used them to light fat yellow candles on a portable altar, in front of the enclosure where the dead men had been placed. Bennek’s gaze lingered on the women. The forms of the Bajoran females were so different from the women he had known on Cardassia; his culture favored wives and daughters to be muscular and athletic in build, mothers and elders to be robust and sturdy. These were willowy and lithe in comparison; they reminded Bennek of the desert nymphs from old fables. Their smooth, flawless skins made them seem ephemeral, almost angelic.

“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 Eledadead.

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 paghhas begun its final journey to the Prophets. We ask that they reach out and guide the souls of the Eledato 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.