Текст книги "Night of the Wolves "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Britta Dennison
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

2

Gil Damar watched Gul Dukat as the prefect surveyed the operations center from the upper ring that extended beyond the prefect’s office, overlooking the soldiers at work. Damar thought the gul looked pleased, and he thought of the great responsibility that went into commanding such a large and impressive facility. Dukat caught Damar’s eye then, and he ambled down the short staircase into the lower level, where Damar was filling out shift-end reports.

“What do you think? Is your new assignment to your liking, Gil?”

Damar nodded. “Yes, very much, sir. The station is…it’s not what I expected.”

Dukat smiled and gazed around appreciatively. “Yes, the Nor-class is really quite breathtaking when you first see it in person. Seldom have elegance and power been fused together so effectively.”

Damar worked quickly to finish up his reports, with the Gul standing nearby. It seemed to Damar that Dukat wanted to continue his conversation, and he wondered if it would be better to abandon his duties to speak to him, or to continue at his task. He could feel Dukat’s gaze on him as he worked.

“Most of the shops already have leases pending,” he offered, continuing to file. “I believe the Promenade businesses will be a striking success.”

Dukat broke into a smile. “I’m pleased to hear you say that. I admit, I had my doubts about the Bajoran merchants’ readiness to move their business to an orbital venue. But most seem to understand what a truly great opportunity this will be for Bajoran trade relations with other worlds. For those Bajorans smart enough to open businesses here, there is a lot of latinum to be made.”

Dukat began to walk, and Damar hesitated at his station before the gul beckoned for him to follow. “Let’s have a look around the Promenade, shall we?”

“I…Yes, sir.”

The two left ops, heading for the station’s center of commerce. It was a number of levels below operations, part of Terok Nor’s upper core. As the lift began its descent, Gil Damar marveled at the construction techniques that had gone into assembling this station in such a short time. A third of the materials had come light-years to be assembled here, much of the components prefabricated elsewhere and systematically fastened into place.

The Promenade was a tri-level ring of commercial spaces and observation decks, which also housed security and the station’s infirmary. Several shopkeepers were already beginning to set up their wares to offer to the Cardassian soldiers and to the vast numbers of Bajorans who would soon be coming to work at the ore processors.

“Just think, Damar. Soon this station will be full of happily working Bajorans.”

Damar looked around, envisioning it. The Bajorans would be quartered in community housing near ore processing, given a place of their own, although there would be those who earned private quarters, in the station’s inner habitat ring. Dukat had spoken of plans to turn one of the Promenade spaces into a Bajoran shrine, to make them feel more welcome; it was a revolutionary idea, and a brilliant one. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to show the Bajorans how they can profit by partnering with us.”

He could see that his answer pleased the prefect. Dukat nodded firmly. “Yes, Damar, exactly! Someday we’ll be providing work for all idle Bajorans, here and on the surface. We will eliminate the food ration centers, and help them to become self-sufficient instead of relying on Cardassian charity. I commend the efforts of those who have conspired to provide welfare to our hosts, but I fear that the newer generations are learning only helplessness and a sense of entitlement from our repeated handouts. They have no gratitude, as they have come to expect us to feed them.”

An aide who had come up behind them quickly fell in step with the prefect.

“Gul Dukat,” the garresh said. “Your Bajoran intermediary is here and is waiting to meet you.”

Dukat turned to the aide, looking puzzled and a little annoyed. “My intermediary? Do you mean Kubus Oak? I’ve already spoken with that pest at least a dozen times today.”

Damar barely succeeded in concealing his surprise at hearing Dukat’s belittling of Secretary Kubus. The gil had met him earlier in the day, and Kubus had struck him as the sort of Bajoran who genuinely appreciated how his world could benefit from its association with Cardassia. That enthusiasm, coupled with his lifelong political acumen, made Kubus the ideal liaison between the prefect and the Bajoran government. Damar wondered what the man had done to earn Dukat’s apparent disdain.

“Not Secretary Kubus, sir. It’s Basso Tromac. He has been appointed to take care of any…personal errands you may need fulfilled here on the station or on the surface of Bajor…? You requested—”

Dukat nodded. “Ah, yes. Thank you. Have him wait outside my office. I’ll be there shortly.”

The aide left them, and Dukat continued to walk, his hands locked behind his back. “I want to trust the Bajorans,” he confided to Damar, “but they make it so difficult. It won’t be easy for me to invest any confidence in a Bajoran assistant.”

Damar nodded, thinking he understood. “But it is best to have someone of this world as a go-between, to help prevent cultural misunderstandings,” he suggested.

“Exactly! You’re quite perceptive, Damar. And yet, I think it would be wise to put this Basso Tromac up to a little test of loyalty, wouldn’t you say?”

Damar supposed that sounded reasonable, and he nodded. They walked a few minutes more, Dukat pointing out salient features of the station, explaining the concepts that had birthed his vision—a central core encircled by two rings, connected by several well-spaced crossover bridges; as many as 7000 people would be able to live comfortably in the habitat ring. The outer docking ring supported the massive pylons that housed ore-processing. The station was comfortable as well as functional, with a design aesthetic that spoke to the unique sensibilities of the modern Union. Terok Nor was truly a feat of Cardassian engineering.

The two officers finally headed back for ops, Damar noting that Dukat was purposefully taking his time, making himself late for his meeting. The young gil lingered behind at his station when they reached the station’s uppermost level. Standing outside the closed door of the prefect’s office was a Bajoran man with a characteristically crinkled nose, the skin of his forehead so strangely pink and smooth, like the belly of a margafish. A glinting adornment dangled from one of his ears. Damar attempted to keep his eyes on his work, but he could not help but regard the man with curiosity. He had seen only a very few Bajorans up close. He watched the exchange in the periphery of his vision.

“You must be Basso Tromac, my new personal aide,” he heard Dukat say. The man answered only with an inclination of his head. Dukat conspicuously did not invite him into the office, which Damar thought odd, but imagined it was part of the test Dukat had been talking about. “There’s something I would like you to take care of right away.”

“How may I be of service, Prefect?” The Bajoran sounded compliant enough.

“Many of my officers here are far away from the comforts of home. They are lonely—for the companionship of women. I would like for you to go to the surface and return with some attractive Bajoran females, to ease their loneliness.”

Damar was stunned, but he noted that the Bajoran man had not even blinked.

“I will see to it immediately, Prefect.” Basso bowed as he made to leave.

Damar stole a glance at Dukat, and found that the gul was looking right at him. Embarrassed, he trained his gaze back to his workstation where it belonged.

“Report to my office, Gil Damar.”

Damar reluctantly ascended the steps, hoping that his expression did not reveal his discomfort.

Dukat ushered him into his office and gestured for Damar to sit. “You appear…unsettled, Damar. Was it the request I made of the Bajoran that upset you?”

“I apologize for eavesdropping, Gul, I did not mean to—”

“Think nothing of it, Gil. Only tell me what is troubling you.”

Damar cleared his throat. “Well—sir, I know that it isn’t unheard of for officers to sometimes…seek comfort when they are away from home. It isn’t that, sir. It’s just that…the Bajoran women…they are so different from us. It seems…unusual… unnatural,to think of…”

Dukat’s smile slipped away. “Gil. If you are going to serve on Terok Nor, you must come to terms with your own xenophobia. The Bajorans are different from us in many ways, of course. But those differences are primarily cultural. Biologically, we are actually more alike than we are different. As for what distinctions there are, we Cardassians must learn to bridge those differences if our two peoples are ever going to come together.”

“Yes, of course, Gul Dukat.” Damar was embarrassed. He knew that the gul had much to teach him, and he desperately hoped that he was wise enough to recognize the lessons as they came. He hoped he would never do anything foolish enough to cause him to fall from Dukat’s favor.

After a single night spent in the settlement outside of Relliketh, Lac had persuaded Lenaris to accompany him several kellipates away, into the tangle of forest outside the town, not far from where Lenaris’s old resistance cell had once hidden. First, they had scouted the area where Lenaris thought Tiven Cohr might still be living, but the area was long abandoned. Lenaris doubtfully suggested that Tiven might have gone farther into Relliketh, though he wasn’t sure if Tiven even had family there. Still, Lac seemed undeterred, happy to pursue Lenaris’s scanty leads.

Since meeting Lac, Lenaris had felt a stir he hadn’t felt in some time. Something in the other man’s demeanor reminded him of Lafe Darin, the man who had inspired him to join the resistance in the first place. Lenaris had been much younger, then—not much more than a kid—but he still clearly recalled that sense that he hadto fight back against the Cardassians, no matter the cost. That he would rather die than settle into hungry and despondent defeat. It was a mindset he thought he’d lost after Darin had died.

It was getting dark as they approached the area where Lac said his flyer would be. Nightfall was the best time to travel beyond the Cardassian-imposed boundaries; the alien soldiers did not take well to the chill brought on after sundown, and Bajorans could expect few encounters with them during the night.

After much inconsequential small talk on their careful journey, Lenaris decided to satisfy some of the more compelling questions he had for the farmer. “So, Lac,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. “You never told me how you knew Tiven Cohr in the first place.”

It was already too dark for Lenaris to see the other man’s expression, but Lac paused before answering, as if deciding what to say.

“I didn’t know him personally. A friend of mine met him a few times.”

“In what capacity?” Lenaris pressed.

“The resistance.”

Lenaris was a little surprised by the man’s candor, but not his answer; he had assumed as much. He thought again of Lafe Darin. When Darin had died, Lenaris had sworn off further involvement with the resistance, but he was still far from having been beaten into a submissive subject of the Union…and he had often wondered what it would take to make him care again. Darin’s death shouldn’t have been a surprise. Anyone involved in the underground had to understand that the only guarantee in the movement was that people were going to die. Friends, brothers and sisters, husbands, wives, even children. Still, Holem had been unprepared for just how much his childhood friend’s death had affected him.

“Tiven Cohr is in the Halpas cell,” Lac said matter-of-factly. “At least, he was a year ago. I heard you were, as well.”

Lenaris wasn’t sure how to respond.

“It’s all right, Holem. I’m fighting against them, too. At least, trying to. Some friends and relatives of mine are trying to scrape together a resistance cell. But Tiven Cohr—I just wanted to contact him regarding another matter.”

Lenaris thought he knew. Tiven Cohr was an engineer whose reputation far preceded him. “The warp ship?”

“I heard that he was the best. He worked on warp vessels before the occupation, didn’t he?”

Lenaris nodded. “Yes, he did,” he said. “But it’s like I told you—I haven’t seen him in some time.”

“Well, you’re the first lead on him I’ve found in months,” Lac said. “You know more than I do, and that’s got to be worth something.”

They curved past the stand of dead and dying trees, thin shadows in the darkness. Lac led them into the woods, taking a trail that Lenaris could barely see by the glow of Bajor’s distant moons.

“It’s right up here.” Lac gestured to something beyond a tangle of brittle tree limbs. Holem could not quite make out what it was as they approached the small clearing; he could only see a dark, angular heap of something that appeared to be covered with old leaves.

Lac began to tug at a corner of a tarpaulin that had been tossed over the ship, woven with strips of canvas and covered over with foliage.

“I don’t believe it,” Lenaris marveled, as the little ship was revealed underneath the covering. It was an old Militia raider, the kind that had been fairly common twenty years ago…when there had still beena Militia.

Lac stepped inside the ship, ignoring the question. “Do you want to fly her, Holem?”

“Really?” he said eagerly. “You’d trust me to—”

“Sure,” Lac said. “I’m not much of a pilot, myself. You’re the Va’telo,after all.”

Lenaris stepped inside, looking at the name painted on the side of her hull. The Lupus,named after the crafty animals that roamed Bajoran forests, sometimes picking off farmers’ livestock. “Where did you get this thing?” he asked.

A smile played around the corner of Lac’s mouth, and Lenaris had already determined that Lac was the sort of person who did not smile without significant provocation. He was obviously pleased with his ship, as every pilot was. “This one belonged to my grandfather,” he explained. “We have others, mostly built from the cannibalized parts of other ships, and even a few built from scratch. But this one is the template.”

“But…you said you come from farmers. Was your grandfather…?”

“It was a hobby for him. He wasn’t allowed a master’s license, of course. He never made it out of the atmosphere. But he loved to fly, when he could, and he was quite good at it, too.” He tapped the ship affectionately. “He managed to hide it from the Cardassians when they started putting restrictions on possession and operation of flyers and spacecraft. It wasn’t that difficult—it didn’t occur to them that a farmer would have an old Militia raider stored in his barn.”

Lenaris hesitated. “How do you keep the Cardassians from tracking your fuel emissions? For that matter, how are we going to stay under the security grids? Do you have some kind of…shielding device?”

Lac smiled again. “Nothing that sophisticated. I’ve studied some of the flight patterns of the delivery vessels that go back and forth across the channel, and I try to stick to their schedules. The Cardassians don’t pay much attention to back-and-forth travel around here. Anyway, if it ever came down to a chase, their flyers have proven to be pretty wobbly in the atmosphere. I think there’s a good chance I could give them a run for their money—and an even better chance that you could.”

Lenaris supposed this was a satisfactory answer, and he was flattered that Lac had already put so much faith in his abilities. He strapped into his seat, feeling a rush of real joy as he prepared to lift off. He adjusted the ship’s thrusters to bring the craft straight upward, out of the trees, enjoying the familiar pull of gravity, the sensation of leaving it behind. He kept the vessel low, learning the console as he piloted them toward the peninsula. It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when he was nearly to Tilar, that he remembered the other part of his question—the one that Lac hadn’t answered.

“How doyou keep the spoonheads from tracing your fuel signature?” he asked.

“Balon,” Lac said, without missing a beat, and Lenaris’s hands tightened on the flight yoke. He could feel the blood draining from his face.

“Balon!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking!” Balon was a highly unstable fuel, out of use for over a century before the Cardassians had come, due to an unfortunate tendency toward spontaneous combustion.

Lac waved a reassuring hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Some friends of mine have figured out how to isolate the most unstable components of it, in its liquid form. We’ve been converting it to a safe fuel source for quite some time now. The Cardies don’t bother to scan for it, since it’s been out of use for such a long time.”

Lenaris relaxed, but only slightly. He felt as though he’d just been told he was strapped to a “safe” bomb. And if Lac was overestimating his friends’ expertise, then he could expect to walk with the Prophets somewhere around touchdown time—Lenaris hadn’t landed a flyer of any sort in well over a year, and without knowing the terrain, he was likely to make a rough reunion with the ground.

Lac leaned forward to the ship’s sensor display, an old-fashioned model with blinking, geometric glyphs showing the other craft in the region. A large, green triangle came into view, and Lac tapped it with his finger. “That’s the landing point,” he declared. “I programmed it in myself,” he added proudly.

“I hope your friends know what they’re doing…with the, uh…” Lenaris trailed off, not wanting to be insulting, but still—the balon mishaps of yesteryear were well remembered by anyone in the Va’telocaste.

“Don’t worry, Holem. I’ve done this at least a hundred times, and I’m sure you’re far better at it than I am.”

Lenaris couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut when the raider came into gentle contact with the ground, a perfect landing if he’d ever made one. He opened his eyes slowly and let out a hard breath. “All in a night’s work,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. His hands still clenched the flight yoke.

Lac wasted no time in pushing back the raider’s glacis plate. “Well, come on then. I’ll take you to the settlement, and then tomorrow we can have a look at the warp ship, weather permitting.”

On rubbery legs, Lenaris followed the farmer, wondering for the hundredth time what he was getting himself into.

In the dark, he could see the uneven outlines of the buildings up ahead. Lac led him toward the center of a ramshackle town, and Lenaris got a clearer picture of where the farmer lived. The buildings were mostly comprised of scrap, piled up on the foundations of crumbling houses from long ago. This was a town that had been destroyed by Cardassians, he deduced, at least a decade ago, and then rebuilt with whatever pieces of debris the surviving Bajorans could find.

“We haven’t always lived like this,” Lac explained. “My family’s farm is some distance from here. I resettled in this area with my cousins just about eight years ago. We’ve had a few more stragglers join us since then, adding more dwellings as we were able to come by building materials.”

Lac’s definition of “building materials” was loose. Uneven bits of stone were plastered into place with dry mud on some of the more substantial houses, but many were thrown together from old sheets of metal and smartplastic that were clearly salvaged from Cardassian refuse.

Lac came upon one such improvised structure, bigger than most of the others, and pulled back the door, made of several thin tree branches stripped of bark and twigs and crookedly lashed together. “Hello?” he spoke into the darkness, and after a moment, a half circle of light appeared underneath the crack of what must have been another door. The half circle widened as a door was thrown back, and out stepped the most beautiful woman Lenaris had ever seen, shaking sleep from her almond-shaped green eyes. She smoothed a thick, black curl behind her ear. “You’re finally back,” she said.

“Lenaris Holem, I’d like you to meet Ornathia Taryl,” Lac said formally.

Lenaris extended his hand. “Your…wife?” he said.

Taryl laughed, a vibrant sound reminding Lenaris of a little bell his mother had once kept on a dais, back at his childhood home. “His sister,” she corrected.

Lenaris hoped he didn’t look as relieved as he felt as he clasped the woman’s forearm. Her skin was smooth and warm.

“Taryl is the one who made the original breakthrough with the balon,” Lac said, clearly proud of his sister.

“Really?” Lenaris said, incredulous. Research into stabilizing balon had eluded scientists for over a century. “I can’t believe a farmer could just—”

Taryl’s pretty face suddenly darkened. “Farming isn’t just planting beans, Lenaris. It takes tremendous knowledge of soil chemistry, climatology, gene splicing and plant biology—”

“I’m…sorry,” Lenaris said, mortified. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Taryl did not look especially appeased, but she let it drop. “It wasn’t just I who made the discovery,” she said. “My fiancé worked on it with me. He—”

“It was you who made the discovery,” Lac said. “Don’t be so modest.”

Taryl shrugged. “So,” she said, gesturing to Lenaris. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve woken me up to introduce me to him?”

“He’s a pilot,” Lac said. “And he knows Tiven Cohr.”

Taryl’s mouth twisted as she appeared to process the news. “The warp ship,” she said softly.

“Don’t tell Seefa,” Lac said. “I know he thinks it’s a lost cause. But I still think—”

“He’s my lover, not my keeper,” Taryl said lightly. “I won’t tell him.” She looked Lenaris up and down. “You really know where Tiven Cohr is, Mister Lenaris?”

“Call me Holem,” he said. “And…I might be able to find him.”

Taryl nodded toward her brother. “Lac has been trying to locate Tiven Cohr for almost two years. Word of mouth, coded messages sent through the comnet—all have been dead ends.”

“Well,” Lenaris said, “I’ll certainly do my best to help.” He tried to sound earnest, though he had come here without any real certainty that he could—or even wanted to—find Tiven. She turned and left them, and Lac escorted Holem to a room with a rough pallet where he could lie down. He thanked his host, and as he lay awake, he considered. He had only just met Taryl, and apparently she was engaged…But she still seemed enough of a reason to follow through on his promise. He wanted to impress her…And he thought that perhaps there was some flicker of dissent that still burned inside him, not entirely snuffed out by the overwhelming defeat he had faced when the Halpas cell had broken apart.

Natima Lang adjusted the volume on her communications screen, but it did little to correct for the subspace static invading her conversation. Transmissions between Bajor and Cardassia Prime were often full of interference during the early months of the year, when the disturbances in the Denorios Belt wreaked havoc on the subspace relays.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to repeat that last question,” Natima told the young woman on the other end of the line.

“I was asking if you wouldn’t mind sending along some of your latest notes—I mean, anything that you don’t mind parting with…”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Vara, of course I’ll send you whatever I have. I admire you for having the astuteness to focus on Bajor. So many Cardassians are unaware of what an important venture this is for our future. They see it as just some distant, faraway place, without really comprehending how beneficial this annexation has been for the Union.”

The girl nodded, her expression sincere and attentive. Natima was pleased. It galled her that so few people took much of an interest in what was happening on Bajor. The improved quality of life on Cardassia Prime was directly attributable to the Bajor mission. She wanted so much to impress upon her fellow Cardassians Bajor’s importance to the homeworld, so they would not take for granted the efforts of their government.

That will change,she thought, studying the grainy face on the screen. Miras Vara seemed bright and enthusiastic; a few more like her, and Bajor’s import would be fixed in Cardassia’s consciousness.

“Thank you so much, Miss Lang. Like I said, I haven’t narrowed down to an exact topic, but I’m hoping that looking through your notes might help to inspire me. Oh, and please, call me Miras.”

“Well, I hope my notes will be helpful for you, Miras. And you may call me Natima. Now, I must warn you—the materials I will be sending you will include raw footage. These images must not be shared with anyone outside the Ministry of Science.”

“I do understand. Although I’m curious—how did the Ministry of Science come to have the footage of those children in the Bajoran orphanage? Doesn’t the Information Service consider images like that to be too provocative for public exposure?”

Natima’s gaze flickered away from the viewscreen for a moment while she answered. “Yes, you’re right—it is a very politically charged topic, that of the orphans. But because the images were being sent to an institution of learning—”

“But—if you don’t mind my asking—why capture those images in the first place?”

Natima coughed. “I suppose I felt that…those children…that Cardassia might want to be made aware of some of the reasons we continue to send troops here. If you’ll excuse me, Miras, I have an appointment I must be getting to. I hate to cut our transmission short, but…”

“I understand. Thank you so much for agreeing to help me with my project. I look forward to receiving your notes.”

Natima tapped off the comm screen and sat back for a moment, closing her eyes. She did not hear her friend Veja Ketan enter her room, and was startled when Veja greeted her.

“Did I hear you say you had an appointment, Natima? I didn’t know you’d scheduled anything for this weekend.”

Natima stood from her chair. “I did say that, but I was really just trying to end the call. It hurts my eyes to look at the screen for so long.”

“It wasn’t a man, was it?” Veja’s tone became playful, something that always annoyed Natima a little. Veja had romance on the brain since she’d learned that her fiancé, a third-tier gil in the military, was to be stationed on Terok Nor. Natima had yet to meet Corat Damar, but Veja had taken a number of leave passes since he’d come to Bajoran space, the two of them meeting at the Cardassian settlement in Hedrikspool. She was always prattling on now that Natima should be looking for a mate.

“Hardly.”

Veja toyed with the long, glossy black plait that curled around her left shoulder. “I was just on the comm myself.”

“Talking to Gil Damar, I’d wager.”

Veja smiled, playing at being embarrassed. “Yes, it was Corat. He invited me to go to Terok Nor, in just a few weeks! Can you imagine how exciting it will be to tour a brand-new state-of-the-art facility just as it begins to go into full operation?”

“Hm,” Natima answered. “I suppose it would be interesting to have a look. I’ve been waiting for the service to send one of us up there to cover it, but I guess the military doesn’t want any correspondents touring until it’s better established.”

Veja’s face was dark with excitement. “Yes, well, now we have the chance!”

“What do you mean, we?”

“Well, perhaps Corat will have a friend for you. There are hundreds of eligible military personnel on that station—”

“Veja, I keep telling you and telling you—”

“Yes, I know. You’re not here to find a husband. But that’s exactly why you probably will find one. Don’t you see? That’s how it always works.”

Natima sighed. She didn’t really feel like tagging along on a date with Veja and her betrothed. But she wanted to see the station. She brushed at a dirty spot on her white tunic while she considered. The crumbly, ubiquitous Bajoran dirt had already ruined so many of her favorite things. It was enough to make her want to dress all in drab browns, like many of the Bajorans she’d seen. She regarded the smear of dirt for a moment before nodding.

“Okay, I’ll go with you. But don’t try to fix me up with anyone, please. And we should come up with some sort of signal, if you and Damar want to go off alone.”

“Oh, we won’t need a signal. If we want to go off alone, you’ll know it. Trust me.”

Natima rolled her eyes, hoping the station would be worth it.

Vedek Opaka bowed to her son, who stood at her left, and then she bowed to the woman on her right. She recited from Taluno’s Seventeenth Prophecy with the rest of the congregation, and then she closed her eyes, to silently thank the Prophets for another day.

Once a month, the vedeks were free to join the gathering of faithful like any other worshipers, their spiritual duties adjourned. Although Opaka loved serving the Prophets, she also looked forward to these days, especially for the opportunity to be with her son. Fasil usually stood with another family until services were concluded, waiting for his mother to complete her tasks so that they could go home to their small cottage, a short distance beyond the sanctuary, and prepare their daily meal.

She smiled at Fasil. He was a good boy, responsible, with a strong sense of right. She had truly been blessed. But he was growing so quickly…

Vedek Gar had stepped to the front, and she turned her attention to him. She was looking forward to his sermon. It was during services that Gar’s quiet, enigmatic qualities were temporarily suspended, giving way to reveal a fiery and inspirational spirit.

“My brothers and sisters,” he began. “It inspires me to see such a strong turnout on a day like today, when many of us would prefer to be outside, to enjoy the sunshine. I know that when the weather has been so unpredictable, many of us feel as though it has been an eternity since we have been warmed by the sun. I commend you for choosing to come to services, for remembering to honor Those whose light replenishes our spirits.” He smiled broadly, but then his expression gave way to one of deep regret.

“Of course, it brings to mind an allegory. One with which I know you are all familiar. For there are some among us who, in these times of despair, begin to wonder if the warmth and comfort brought to them by the Prophets will ever return. And as they lose their faith, they begin to lose their way as well. And even when the Prophets are felt again, like the sun on an uncertain spring day, it is not to Them that those wayward travelers attribute their good fortune. Instead, they believe that it is only by their own initiative that fate begins to smile upon them. They forget where proper thanks are due.”