Текст книги "Night of the Wolves "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Britta Dennison
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Lac nodded. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he offered.

“No—it’s all right, it’s just—I don’t particularly care to think about my father.”

“Oh,” Lac said. “Was it…Cardies?”

Lenaris shrugged slightly. “More or less.”

Lac looked apologetic. “I don’t mean to sound so…forward. It’s just that…well, I think I’ve heard your name before—and then when you said you’re a pilot—”

“A pilot without a ship,” Holem reminded him. This conversation seemed mired in depressing topics.

“You won’t need a ship,” Lac told him. “I have one.”

Lenaris’s eyebrows shot up, but Lac went on as if he hadn’t just said the unlikeliest thing one could have expected from a farmer.

“I do recognize your name,” Lac said, his voice taking on a confidential tone. “You know Tiven Cohr, don’t you?”

Lenaris was no less surprised. “I…” He wasn’t sure whether to confess to it or not. Tiven Cohr was involved with Lenaris’s old resistance cell, a group he hadn’t associated with for the better part of a year. This was not the sort of thing one was generally eager to discuss with a stranger.

“Look, Lenaris,” Lac said, suddenly sounding a bit urgent. “I know we just met, but…you seem reasonably trustworthy. And if I’m right about that…” He lowered his voice. “I have something to show you that, as a pilot, you might find interesting.” He glanced at the overcast sky. “That is, if we ever come to the end of this line.”

As if on cue, it began to rain, at first the slightest suggestion of cold drops prickling the back of Lenaris’s neck, and then an out-and-out downpour. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, sniffling as the water soaked his hair and rolled down the tip of his nose.

“What kind of thing?” he asked Lac, who had assumed a similar posture.

Lac smiled mysteriously through the sheets of rain, and leaned closer, to speak to Lenaris over the plunking and splashing all around them. “It’s a warp ship,” he whispered. “A Bajoranwarp ship.”

Lenaris stared in disbelief. “Where?” he asked.

“I’ll show it to you,” Lac told him, wiping the water out of his eyes. “But first, I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” Lenaris said uncertainly, shivering in the rain.

“Take me to Tiven Cohr.”

“I can’t,” Lenaris said, feeling slightly relieved. He didn’t want to get mixed up in whatever this fellow was proposing, especially if it involved Tiven Cohr. “I don’t know where he is.”

Lac looked disappointed. “But…could you find out?”

Lenaris frowned, poking his toes in the edges of the deep puddles that were suddenly emerging. “I don’t know,” he said.

The rain was beginning to let up, as quickly as it had started. Lac gave it another try. “You couldn’t even maybe tell me where you last saw him? Anything like that?”

Lenaris grimaced. They were coming closer to the front of the line, where they would soon be within earshot of the collaborating Bajorans who ran the ration checkpoints. “I suppose…there are a few things I could tell you,” he said.

Lac grinned. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “I can take you to my shuttle tomorrow.”

“Your shuttle?” Holem said. He hadn’t intended to sign on for whatever it was Lac was offering, but the farmer only nodded. Holem was bursting with questions, but as the line edged closer to the ration station, he could not ask them. He would have to be satisfied with finding out after he’d received his rations, and with the way his stomach was churning, he hoped the food would taste better than it smelled.

Professor Mendar cleared her throat loudly, and several of her students sat up a little straighter in their chairs. Miras Vara absentmindedly tapped a stylus against the surface of her padd, trying not to think about lunch. This class, a required postgrad overview of the Cardassian territories, was always difficult for Miras because of its unfortunate time slot. She was sure that many of the students, if not most, had the same problem. It didn’t help that the content of the course was mostly irrelevant to Miras’s primary concentration, homeworld agriculture. She’d spent six years studying ponics and soil components, and enjoying every minute of it; a quartile of politics and geography, treaties and borders, and she was bored stiff.

“Today, we begin our study of Bajor,” the professor said, her hair a sleek black helmet on her rather mannish head. “I have prepared a brief presentation. I hope it will illustrate the importance of the development of new weapons for the future of our world, and open a discourse on ways in which we might better incorporate alien cultures.”

Miras stifled a yawn and programmed her padd to download the images from the mainframe.

“I have to warn you that some of this material may be disturbing,” the professor continued, and Miras sat up straighter, glancing over at Kalisi. Her classmate arched one delicate ridge, smiling slightly. The other students murmured to one another.

“Quiet, please. These are uncensored images, given to us by a correspondent for the Cardassian Information Service. She has risked her life many times to bring the truth about the Bajoran annexation to the Cardassian people. Normally, these images would not be displayed for the general public to view, as there are those who would manipulate this kind of material as ammunition for dissent. However, I am confident that my graduate students know better.”

“There was a man in my sector who was a dissenter,” Kalisi whispered across the aisle. Kalisi Reyar was one of Miras’s closest friends. “I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

“He was foolish to make his opinions known,” Miras whispered back.

Kalisi’s gaze flicked to the front of the room before she replied. The professor was wrangling with her console. “He couldn’t help himself. People with beliefs like that usually have a disorder that prevents them from understanding loyalty to anything but their own desires. A defect in their lateral cortex makes them abnormally egocentric, and the same disorder keeps them from having any impulse control. I learned about it in socio-deviance.”

Miras turned forward as an image on the teacher’s display lit up the darkened room. There was a long, slow pan of a massive pile of rubble, smoking composite materials spilling from the front of a large building. Soldiers in deflect suits were using displacers to shift through the wreckage.

“This ruined building is located at one of the older Cardassian settlements,” Professor Mendar explained. “You can see that it has sustained considerable damage in an attack by rebel Bajorans. Of course, the vast majority of Cardassian structures remain unharmed. But for the soldiers who were garrisoned in this building, for the men and women who worked here…”

Miras leaned toward Kalisi. “My cousin was stationed on Bajor for a little while, before being sent to the border colonies.”

“My father says the border colony skirmishes are a waste of Cardassia’s resources,” Kalisi said promptly. “We should be putting more focus on Bajor.”

Miras did not answer. Her own parents had often expressed the opposite belief. Many Cardassians had strong feelings about the conflict with the Federation over the border colonies, but Miras felt it wasn’t appropriate for a woman to make her political opinions known. Anyway, it was not the function of a scientist to question military affairs, only to answer the call for improved technologies, to better the Cardassian quality of life. She had often thought to herself that Kalisi was too outspoken for a woman, but she adored her friend just the same. Miras had no illusions about her own future—she would work at the ministry, part of a team developing agrochemicals, or studying soil–plant microbe interaction; she would marry and bear children, as expected by her family and by the Union, and while it was all quite dull, she supposed, she was content with her prospects. Kalisi, though, beautiful and ambitious, an engineer and a programmer…Miras couldn’t imagine such a plain, quiet life for someone like Kalisi.

“This is one of our most productive mining facilities on Bajor,” Professor Mendar went on, images of tunnels and rocks flashing up, a number of the soft-faced Bajorans moving carts of rough-hewn stone across the screen. Without ridges, their faces seemed vulnerable and bland, their coloring quite sickly. Not an attractive people. “We have found a dizzying array of geological resources on the planet, and our latest estimation suggests that through their acquisition, we will extend Cardassian mineral productivity for decades, perhaps centuries.”

The next image was of a crashed vehicle in a forest, a skimmer perhaps, its broken metal body half hidden by the deep green of the surrounding plants and trees. Miras felt a spark of real interest, looking at the tall woods, the lush undergrowth. She leaned back to her friend again. “This is giving me an idea for my thesis project.”

“Me, too.” Kalisi’s whisper was no less excited.

“Beyond the usefulness of the topsoil analysis, just think of all the undiscovered flora and fauna…” Miras marveled at the possibilities. Xenoecology was her current favorite “tangent,” a class that was also taught by Professor Mendar. “What would it be like to be part of a research team stationed on Bajor?”

“If I were to go, it would be to study how to make Cardassian weapons more effective there. I hear the climate is nearly intolerable.”

Miras started to reply, but the latest image on the teacher’s display caught her eye, and she gasped in horror.

Professor Mendar continued her narration. “I know that what you are seeing is very disturbing. But I think it’s important that you understand who will be the true beneficiaries of better Cardassian technology.”

Miras looked away. The picture was too much. Half-starved Cardassian children, their eyes hollow and black beneath their cranial ridges, stood miserably in a hut made of reeds. Their faces were smeared with reddish Bajoran soil, their black hair tangled, their clothing barely more than rags.

“These are the children of families who were once stationed on Bajor—families who were killed, or who simply disappeared. They have no place in Cardassian society now.”

“But where will they…what will they do?” Miras was so flustered that she spoke out of turn.

“Please raise your hand, Miss Vara. When they’re of age, they’ll be offered placement in the military, perhaps trained for some menial labor. They’ll be transported wherever the Union needs them most.”

Miras studied the hopeless, unsmiling faces. “But isn’t there something we can do for them now?”

There was a murmur of disapproval among some of the other students, and the instructor hesitated before speaking. “We can ensure that there are no more like them in the future.”

Miras wanted to say more, to plead their case, but she knew better. The integrity of the family structure was the very core of Cardassian society. To take on a child of another’s blood, to give them resources meant for one’s own children…It simply wasn’t done. In leaner times—and not so long ago—orphans had been cast into the streets to live like animals. Euthanasia, while not common, had neither been rare. It had only been in the past few generations that any subsidy had been made for them by the government. Orphans were better taken care of now than at any other point in Cardassian history, but it was still a sensitive topic. Seeing their small faces, though, she’d been unable to keep silent.

The film jumped to reveal another shot of the makeshift orphanage, and what Miras saw next disturbed her even more. This time, she remembered to raise her hand before asking. “Those alien children in the back of the room—are they also…?”

“Yes. The Bajoran insurgents are truly so ruthless that they will even kill their own kind, if they suspect that they might be assisting the Union. Those children are probably the sons and daughters of Bajorans who cooperated with the Cardassian government and were subsequently killed by heartless terrorists. We must understand that we are dealing with an enemy whose ideals are very different from our own. We must not make the mistake of trying to sympathize with their position, for the Bajorans are not like us.”

“Kalisi,” Miras whispered. “We haveto focus our thesis projects on Bajor.”

Kalisi nodded vigorously. “I already know what mine will be,” she told her friend. “What do you think of ‘Weapons for Peace’ as a title?”

A look from Professor Mendar, and the two students fell silent, turning their attention back to the presentation.

As the class came to an end, Miras approached her professor eagerly, with Kalisi close behind her. “Professor Mendar, where can I find the latest datafiles from Bajor? Kalisi and I would like to research the annexation for our final thesis projects.”

“That is an excellent idea, ladies, but I’m afraid there is currently very little data available to the public. Study of Bajor is a relatively new pursuit, considering the growing pains that are still under way in winning the loyalty of the Bajorans. Most of what you will find is related to the geology of the planet. If you’ve anything else in mind, you might not have much to go on.”

Kalisi interrupted. “Is there anything comprehensive on Bajoran atmospheric peculiarities, as opposed to Cardassia Prime’s?”

The teacher looked doubtful. “You’re welcome to look at whatever the Ministry of Science has on file.”

Miras felt a spark of excitement. “Do you think we might contact the information correspondent who captured those images? Perhaps she might help us. If you’re at liberty to say her name, of course.”

The teacher nodded. “That information is indeed open to the public. The correspondent’s name is Natima Lang. Yes, I think you would be well-advised to speak to her. You’ll find her to be a very knowledgeable, accommodating, and patriotic woman.”

Natima Lang.Miras filed the name in her short-term memory, deciding she’d try to contact the woman right away. She’d been planning for some time to do her final project on aerobic soil processes in Cardassian sand clay, but the images of Bajor…She felt suddenly quite certain that her focus had to be on some aspect of Bajor. It was unlike her to make such impetuous decisions—that was more in Kalisi’s line—but she was clear in her mind, as though the decision had been made long ago.

“My children.” Kai Arin’s distinctive voice was edged with kindness that was comfortable but firm. His words rang gently through the Kendra Shrine, settled over the congregation like an embrace.

“I know that many of the faithful have come to believe that the Prophets have abandoned them. But I urge you to hear my words. The Prophets have a plan for Bajor. It is when things become most difficult that our faith must sustain us. You must follow the prophecies as laid out by our forebears. You must adhere to your D’jarras. Leave politics to those in the designated political realm. Continue to concentrate on your roles in society as individuals. It is through the D’jarras that the machinery of Bajoran life will continue to run smoothly, each Bajoran a crucial component of the whole. Unless every last component works together, the machine will break down, and Bajor will become dysfunctional, its societal inner workings broken beyond repair.”

The faithful murmured their approval, and Vedek Opaka Sulan, who stood at the door of the shrine with a ceremonial chime, murmured along with them, as she had through all the day’s services. But, try as she might to stifle it, her heart ached with doubt. She could not ignore the Cardassian soldiers who stood just beyond the door of the religious shrine, listening to the kai’s every word.

Arin was not the most popular kai in Bajor’s long and storied religious history; in fact, many Bajorans had refused to accept him when he took the position a few years after the formal occupation by the Cardassians, believing him to have been elected falsely under the alien regime. The church had been affected by numerous schisms at that time, and many Bajorans had simply abandoned formal religious services altogether, though most still believed in the Prophets. Arin often chose to address these concerns in his sermons, but his thinning congregation seemed only to grow thinner as time went by.

Opaka wanted to believe that there was true conviction behind the kai’s words; she had long felt that those who accused the kai of being a puppet for the Cardassians were simply weak of faith. Her personal thoughts on the matter had always been that the kai spoke from his own heart, that he genuinely believed in advocacy for the D’jarras. And yet, as time went by, Sulan could see more and more evidence that the D’jarras were hurting Bajor more than they were helping it. In the written words of the ancient ones, she found more and more references to the idea that the D’jarras were based solely on tradition rather than on actual prophecy. Yet she struggled, for she feared that she had simply fallen victim to the murmurings of the doubtful—although she considered herself a sensible person, not easily swayed by popular opinion. In many ways, she had never felt her faith tested so strongly as it was being tested now.

As the evening’s final service concluded, Opaka bid good-bye to the Bajoran worshipers as they filed out of the sanctuary, and then gathered together the ceremonial items to be put away in the reliquary. She turned to acknowledge her fifteen-year-old son Fasil, who waited for her in the pews, amusing himself by whittling on a bit of kindling he had picked out of the firewood. Opaka was exhausted—she had stayed awake too late the night before, studying prophecy—and she looked forward to joining her son for dinner in their small cottage, but her persistent unease remained. She had considered speaking to the kai about her concerns, but something held her back. She did not want him to perceive her questions as an accusation in any way, and she knew she must think carefully about how to approach him.

Someone spoke behind her. “Vedek Opaka, you seem troubled.”

She turned, still holding chimes and braziers. It was Gar Osen, an elder vedek who served as close counsel to the kai. She liked him well enough, though he had always seemed a bit reclusive to her. It was typical of him to ask after another’s concerns, but rare for him to share his own feelings.

“Thank you, Vedek Gar. I suppose I was just considering…” She hesitated, but Gar’s expression was so effectively compassionate that she decided to unburden herself of her thoughts. “In regard to the kai’s sermon today, I…confess I often wonder at the efficacy of the D’jarras in today’s world. I don’t mean to say that they should be abandoned, of course, but—” She paused, but Gar’s expression hadn’t changed, and she felt encouraged to continue.

“Perhaps the Prophets don’t always mean for us to passively wait for answers to fall to us,” she said. “Perhaps the Prophets expect us to find conviction within ourselves when things become difficult, to call upon our own individual strengths and weaknesses, and…perhaps a redefinition of the D’jarras isin order, considering the circumstances. I say this only because it seems that so many of the castes have become irrelevant in this new climate, and they serve to divide us, at a time when unity is so…imperative…”

She trailed off, fearing that she had said too much. Gar’s silence had finally unnerved her, and she waited for him to weigh in with an opinion of his own.

“Vedek Opaka, it seems you have given a lot of thought to this matter. Would you like it if I were to speak to the kai on your behalf?”

“Yes,” she told him, flooded with hope and relief. “You understand—I only want to open a dialogue. Perhaps the kai has something to say that will help me to better understand his approach.”

Vedek Gar nodded. “Perhaps he does, at that.”

He took Opaka’s left ear between his thumb and forefinger, and she closed her eyes as the energy of her paghwas revealed to him.

“Your paghreflects deep sincerity, Vedek Opaka.” He bowed slightly, and left her.

Opaka bowed in turn, and went to put away the ceremonial items, pleased that she’d spoken after all.

The man’s name was Thill, Thill Revi, and he was as coarse and unappealing as most Bajorans. Natima could have interviewed him for the story over her office’s secure line, but there was also going to be a minor “summit” at the base where Thill was in protective custody, a conference of all the base commanders in the Rakantha province; the Information Service needed a representative there. Her supervisor hadn’t wanted to send her—the military base and the small Cardassian community it protected were near a heavily forested area in Rakantha, not a secure area in spite of the heavy concentration of soldiers there—but most of his male reporters were on assignment, and she was one of his best filters, fast and clean. He’d assigned her a recorder and a travel permit and told her not to linger.

As though I’m on vacation,she thought, looking into the narrow, damp face of Thill Revi as he studied her press badge. They sat in one of the base’s small meeting rooms, thankfully heated but otherwise unpleasant, bare, and ill-lit. Her “escort,” a base garresh, leaned against the far wall looking entirely bored. She was glad to be covering the conference; it would stream as a lead piece, worth the price of the last-minute travel, a cramped transport full of leering soldiers, a tight deadline…But another interview with one of themtook some of the shine off.

Thill handed back her hardcopy pass, his expression too alien to understand. Suspicion? Anger? The Bajoran had graying hair and thin lines around his nose and mouth. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and nasal.

“You say you want to know about Mesto?” Thill asked. “Write a story about it?”

Natima nodded, and spoke with a patience she didn’t feel. “Produce it, actually. As I said when I contacted you last week. I’m doing a piece about the Bajoran approval of Union annexation, focusing on men and women—like yourself—who’ve accepted our presence here, and have chosen to help us, in spite of the risks from Bajoran insurgents.”

Thill’s narrow face grew narrower. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “All I did was tell our town liaison about Mesto Drade. He told the commander here, and they arrested him.”

Natima checked the recorder, adjusted the angle slightly. “He’s your neighbor, is that correct?”

“Farm next to my outfit,” Thill said. His tone was sullen. “Don’t know that that makes him a neighbor.”

“Tell me how you found out what Mesto was doing,” Natima said. Usually such an open-ended invitation started them talking. Most of the Bajorans she’d interviewed were only too eager to explain themselves, to convince anyone who might listen that they weren’t really like the others, the collaborators.

Thill folded his arms. “You hear things. Drade, he thinks—he thought he was better than me. Farmer’s no better than craftsman, though, no matter what anyone says. We’re the same on the wheel.”

D’jarras, she thought. The caste system. She stifled her distaste at the ignorance of his beliefs, reminding herself that he’d been raised into his cultural superstitions; it wasn’t his fault. “Mesto was hiding the parts of a nearly complete warp reactor in his barn, along with stockpiles of chemical explosives. Your decision to turn him in probably saved lives.”

Thill looked sour. “Ruined mine, though, didn’t it? It’s not just the rebels, you know. None of them—my ‘neighbors’—none of them ever treated me real good. My family D’jarra, Ke’lora,is low on the wheel, see? I’m a tanner, come from a long line of tanners. It’s a respectable position, you know, working the skins. ‘And as the tradesman plies his wares, so the tanner scrapes the hides, so the ranjen studies the Word.’ That’s a direct quote from the Book of Seasons, isn’t it? But all those high-caste types, they don’t want to shake hands with someone like me. Same with my da, an’ his da before him. Good men, treated poor.”

His expression darkened. “Since I told about Mesto, though, no one will even lookat me. I went to the market day after the soldiers came, and they wouldn’t even sell me a drink of water. I should have expected as much. They say they believe the Word, but when Drade stopped farming, when he openly shunned his Fate, they all looked the other way. Someone had to stop him, that’s all. “

His mouth pinched even tighter. “Never thought they’d do what they did to me, though.”

Natima nodded along, trying to appear empathetic. It was a common story. Even after all this time, the Bajorans ostracized, harassed, even threatened “collaborators.” Thill was at the military base because a week after he’d informed on Mesto, someone had tried to burn his house down, with him inside of it. He’d come to the base for protection. Usually informants weren’t offered any kind of shelter, but the station commander had personally benefited from the seizure of the warp reactor and explosives; he’d granted Thill a temporary sanctuary.

Not that he deserves it,she thought. Thill hadn’t been trying to help the Union, turning in a plotting terrorist; it was all some petty revenge, over hurt feelings and ridiculous cultural tenets. Still, she’d get nothing further from him by sharing her thoughts on the matter.

“It’s…commendable, that you chose to see Mesto Drade brought to justice,” Natima said, glancing down at her notes. “His name has been on a list of people with possible ties to the terrorists for some time, but his priority status was low. As I said, your decision undoubtedly saved lives…”

She waited for him to pick up, to detail his story, but he only stared at her, his lined, hard face as still as stone. She resisted looking at her chrono, aware that the first meeting of the Rakantha base commanders would soon begin, if it hadn’t already. It was being held in the base’s main building, behind the barracks. Her feature on “helpful” Bajorans wasn’t due for another week, but she’d be up late tonight, filtering footage from the conference. There would be material for the civilian net on Cardassia, sound bites for the propaganda channels, other strings that would be sent to high-ranking members of Central Command; best she be there to record it.

Wrap this up, then. She’d get no help from Thill, but she had more than enough footage of Kubus Oak, droning on about brotherhood between the races. She’d cobble something together from the other interviews.

“Well. I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Thill…”

There was a sudden, heavy rumbling sound, stilling her words. Natima recognized the sound instantly; she’d spent long hours watching feeds of terrorist attacks. An instant later, they heard shouts, heard the keening whine of phaser fire. The garresh who’d taken her to meet Thill had snapped to attention, was talking low and fast into his comm. Natima and Thill both stood, the Bajoran’s long face and darting gaze giving his fear away.

The conference. The base had been attacked, was perhaps still under attack. The explosion had come from behind the barracks, she was sure of it. Natima scooped up her recorder, turned to the door. She was too excited to be afraid, thinking of the footage she might be able to capture. The garresh stepped in front of her, physically blocking her way.

“We’ll stay here until we get the all clear,” he said sharply.

“I’m a reporter and qualified filter for the CIS,” Natima said, meeting his tone. “And I’m aware of the risks. I could—”

“You could die,Miss,” he said. “I’m assigned to keep you from harm, and my orders stand. You’re not going anywhere.”

“What if they come for me?” Thill said, his voice high, his eyes moving, moving.

The garresh sneered at him. “Then we’ll let them have you, Bajoran.”

Thill sat down again with a low moan of terror. Natima glared at the soldier, frustrated, aware that if she’d been a man, he would have let her go.

If I were a man, I wouldn’t have an escort in the first place.

The garresh’s face was set. Outside there were more shouts, but no further explosions, no more weapons fire. A hit-and-run, probably, like most of the terrorist attacks on Bajor. The rebels were cowards, they were fools with firepower, randomly attacking anyone and anything Cardassian. Natima hoped that no one in the settlement had been injured. There were families there, wives and children of soldiers, civilian scientists…

They don’t care who they hurt,she thought, sitting back down, and finally felt a whisper of fear for herself. In another few moments, she, too, would have been at the conference.

Thill had his head in his hands, was mumbling to himself, repeating something over and over. She leaned in, caught his plaintive whisper.

“I don’t want to die, please the Prophets, please don’t let me die, I’m sorry I did it, I’m sorry about what I did, please don’t let me die…”

Natima leaned away from him, unable to hide her own sneer. Praying to gods that didn’t exist, to absolve him for turning in a terrorist…so that he might be saved from another terrorist, one of his own kind. And outside, soldiers had surely been injured, perhaps killed. She’d tried to keep an open mind since coming to Bajor, but what a miserable, self-serving people she found them to be, never content, reckless and violent and primitive.

She held her recorder tightly, waiting to be told it was safe.