Текст книги "Dawn of the Eagles "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Gene Rodenberry,Britta Dennison
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

14

Odo had been swept into an investigation regarding the brutal murder of a Bajoran chemist on Terok Nor, and he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. In the weeks since he’d come to the station, since the prefect had recruited him for security, he had struggled to learn the job. He had observed and restated information to people with differences of opinion, and thus far, the disagreements he’d overseen had mostly worked themselves out. Gul Dukat said he’d wanted Odo because of his reputation as a mediator in some of the Bajoran villages, and more recently, with some of the Bajorans in ore processing. But solving Bajoran disputes and puzzling out Cardassian criminal codes were hardly the same thing. A deliberate killing was something entirely new in his limited experience.

Having just come from an interview with the Ferengi bartender, Odo was struggling to keep up with the interface on the security office’s computer. The system differed from the one at the Bajoran Institute of Science, and Odo had not yet become accustomed to its peculiarities.

“Anything from the Ferengi?”

Odo looked up as a Cardassian man entered the room. Dalin Russol had arrived at the station shortly before Odo himself, to shore up security after the previous chief had left. Russol didn’t seem to be especially keen on accepting the position as chief himself, however, although he had allegedly been offered the position, and had thus far been encouraging Odo to accept the role. A year ago, Odo would have accepted the encouragement at face value, but he’d learned a few things about the nature of humanoids. Enough to know that he understood very little.

“Not sure,” Odo said, and left it at that. The Ferengi had given him a story that turned out to be false. A female suspect had bribed him for an alibi, which Odo supposed could be an indication of her guilt. But he had a nagging feeling there was more to the story. He looked up at Dalin Russol. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this job,” he confessed. “The prefect seems to want me to simply find someone to arrest as quickly as possible, without completely ensuring that it’s the right person. I don’t know if he and I…” He stopped, for he didn’t know how to put voice to the rest of it.

“What?” Russol asked him, but then supplied his own answer. “You wonder if the breadth of your own moral bandwidth might not completely overlap with Dukat’s? Is that it?”

Odo wasn’t sure, but he thought this sounded something like what he wanted to convey. He nodded.

Russol smiled. “That is exactly why you must accept this position, Odo. My understanding is that Thrax was as fair as a man could have been, for being a Cardassian, but you—you’re an outsider. You’ll escape the biases my people have for these”—he spread his hands—“Bajorans.”

“Your people seem to have a natural prejudice against them,” Odo replied carefully, for he still did not fully understand what drove the two races to despise each other so.

“My people are offended by the Bajorans,” Russol said, looking away from Odo. He locked his hands behind his back and raised his head, seeming very interested in the ceiling, though he kept talking. “Their culture appeared static to us. They had not progressed, by Cardassian standards, in many centuries. Their behavior…we found it unacceptable for them to have settled into a lifestyle of such lazy contentment.”

“What could be wrong with being content?”

Russol laughed, a rueful sound. “Cardassians live for the pursuit of the next phase in every undertaking of their lives. It’s never good enough to be merely content. Cardassians…scarcely know the meaning of the word, in fact.” He looked at Odo. “So, you have another subject to interview for your investigation?”

“Yes,” Odo said. He wondered at Russol’s behavior, the words he had spoken. The man seemed not to agree with his own characterization of his people, but then, Odo supposed he was not all that well-practiced at reading people’s intentions. One of the many reasons he feared he was ill-suited for the position in security.

Russol left him alone, and Odo continued his clumsy navigation of the computer system, looking for a file on a particular Bajoran. He found it after a few false starts: Kira Nerys.

Odo studied the image of the sullen-looking redheaded woman, and he revisited a nagging suspicion that had troubled him when he had interviewed her in person. She was familiar to him, but he couldn’t place where he had seen her. In one of the villages? He was sure that wasn’t it. He read her file, finding her to be loosely affiliated with the resistance movement, but her activity within the resistance was limited, and she had not been accused of any serious crimes. Of course, Odo suspected that Dukat could have her arrested simply for being associated with the movement, but he sensed that such action would have been arbitrary on Dukat’s part. The thought of Dukat’s nature brought him a resurgence of discomfort. The work of helping solve disputes, he believed, was good work; why would Dukat have asked him to stay, if he did not wish Odo to do his job well?

He studied her picture until the image seemed indistinct, blurry. He had looked at it too long, and now she didn’t look familiar anymore. He shut down the program, trying to picture her as he’d seen her on the station today, when she’d given him her unlikely alibi. He could not shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. Perhaps it would come to him when he spoke with her again.

Kalisi Reyar returned to her quarters after a tiresome day, chilled and out of sorts, to see a message waiting on her companel—a transmission from Cardassia Prime. She hadn’t had a call from home since…since she wasn’t sure when. Her family had initially been proud that she’d left home to design Bajor’s detection grid, but that had been when they’d all thought she would be away a few years, at most. Her father, in particular, had made clear his sorrow that his second-oldest daughter had not already returned home triumphant, to give him grandchildren and settle into a high office at the science ministry. Their last contact had been months before, an obligatory birthday message.

Kalisi took off her coat—she’d spent most of the afternoon outside in a cold and misty drizzle, trying to adjust the hospital’s security feed—and told her computer to run the message as she sat to take off her boots.

A Cardassian woman she didn’t recognize came up, smiling politely. She was well-dressed and spoke in a cool, clear voice.

“Doctor Reyar. My name is Tera Glees. I represent the University of Culat, on Cardassia Prime. As you may or may not have heard, we are expanding our campus to include a research department specifically designed to assist Cardassian colonies and annexations. We’re in need of a professional to round out our weapons division, and are inquiring as to whether or not you’d be interested in taking a position with us. I’ve attached a file outlining a job description, with links to salary, housing, campus maps. I believe you’ll find it comprehensive, but please feel free to contact me at any time with any questions you may have. I look forward to taking your call, and we thank you for your consideration.”

Her eyes wide, one boot still in hand, Kalisi stared at the screen as the woman blipped off. She dropped the boot to the floor, stepped to her desk, and opened the rider, scanning the bullet points with disbelief. The pay and benefits were excellent, the opportunities suddenly limitless.

Weapons research.At Culat, which had produced some of the best and brightest minds in the Union. She could be done with Crell Moset and his brilliant, soulless eyes, done with menial mechanics and medical scanner debugging, done with the cold. She could go home.

She wanted to tell someone, needed to hear it out loud, but she had no friends at Moset’s hospital. In a daze, she put in a call to her father. When his face appeared on her screen, stern and wary and so well loved, she felt like weeping.

“I’ve been offered a position at Culat,” she said, before he could say anything.

“What? At the university?”

“Yes. They’re opening a new research department and want me for their weapons team.”

Her father smiled, then, and her heart warmed. She hadn’t seen that smile in some time.

“The university at Culat is most prestigious,”he said. “You’ve accepted?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’ve only just received the transmission.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”he asked, still smiling. “Call them back, accept the position. You’ll be home, dearest. You’ll finally be able to start working on that family you keep promising us.”

Is it going to hurt?

No, it won’t hurt a bit. I promise.

Kalisi stared at her father, hearing the little Bajoran girl’s voice as clearly as if she was in the room. Seeing her frightened face, seeing her smile once she realized that the inoculation was over, that there had been no pain.

It didn’t hurt.

“Kalisi?”Her father frowned. “Youare going to accept, of course.”

“I—of course,” she said, but her excitement, her reliefat the offer was gone. “I have a few things to finish here first…”

“What things? I thought you were working in a medical facility now. Surely they don’t need your expertise on weapons systems to treat sick aliens.”

Kalisi wasn’t sure how to answer him. How was she to tell him that she’d begun to feel haunted by the spirits of a million unborn children? Alienchildren? She had always been his practical girl, his brilliant, focused one. How was she to admit that after all these long, cold years, struggling to make her name– theirname—she was losing her focus?

She changed the topic, recalling something she’d been meaning to ask him about for some time now. “Do you remember when I asked you a few years back…if you could confirm that a man named Dost Abor was in any way affiliated with the Obsidian Order?”

Her father frowned for a moment, trying to recall the prior conversation, and then he nodded. “Yes, indeed, I confirmed that he is an operative. He’s stationed at an offworld listening post. But what makes you ask about Dost Abor?”

“Kali?”

Kalisi turned in her seat, saw Crell Moset standing in her doorway. He’d apparently taken it upon himself to surprise her.

“Ah—” She turned back to the screen, smiling apologetically. “Father, my supervisor needs my attention. Perhaps we could speak more of this later?”

Her father had spent most of his professional career acting the diplomat. He needed no further prompting.

“Yes, another time. Be well, dearest.”

The screen went blank, and Kalisi turned to face Moset. She did her best not to let her irritation show, it would only lead to sex…although his attempt to be playful by sneaking into her room suggested that it was already a forgone conclusion.

“That was your father?” the doctor asked. “Who is Dost Abor?”

Kalisi stood, smiling. “I did not hear you come in, Crell.”

“Old boyfriend, perhaps?”

“Nothing like that,” she said. “I’ve just come in. Have you eaten? We could—”

“Your father works as a liaison, doesn’t he? Why would you be asking him about an old lover? Or perhaps he’s another medical researcher…?”

His tone was mild, a slight smile on his crease of a mouth, but there was a sudden sharpness to his gaze that made her stomach tighten. Her lover was an obsessive man.

The truth cost her nothing. “Dost Abor…is someone I suspected to be affiliated with the Order. Just before I came here, he asked me questions about a Bajoran religious artifact I once handled, at the Ministry of Science.”

Moset leaned against her desk. “Why would the Order take interest—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. “Was it one of the Orbs?”

Kalisi couldn’t hide her surprise at the terminology Moset used: the “Orbs.” She’d very nearly forgotten that anyone had ever referred to the objects as such, but she remembered now, Miras Vara had called the thing an Orb…an Orb of the… Prophets? Bajoran religious nonsense. “Why would you suggest that?”

Moset pursed his lips slightly, a knowing expression in his usually impassive eyes. “The Obsidian Order has been hoarding them,” he said. “I believe they want to keep them from the Oralian Way.”

“The religious fanatics?” Kalisi was puzzled; she knew very little of that particular organization—only rumors. “I thought the Union dealt with them decades ago.”

The maddening expression, his “teacher” voice. Kalisi dropped her gaze from him as he replied. “The Union probably thinks so, too. But the Way lives still.”

Kalisi couldn’t help a sneer. “How could you possibly know that?”

He smiled. “I have a relative who has been involved with the resurgence of the Way for some time now.”

“The resurgence? So you mean…younger people are practicing this faith now?”

“Yes, they have been rebounding in increasing numbers for at least fifteen years or so.”

“Fifteen years!”

“Possibly longer,” he said. “They are led by a woman—they call her the Guide. She has been around for fifteen years, at least—this is how long I have known of her, anyway. Her name is Astraea. She is said to be the successor to a line of religious guides who have the ability to channel their deity.”

Kalisi did not reply except to wrinkle her nose fiercely. As a scientist she felt especially skeptical—even contemptuous—regarding matters of mysticism and superstition. But she was reluctantly interested enough to continue listening to Moset’s account of the strange phenomenon.

“This so-called Astraea…I hear she was a ministry-trained scientist before she was chosen, or summoned, or whatever they call it.”

Kalisi scoffed audibly, and Moset went on without hesitation, as though deliberately ignoring her reaction.

“She’s had visions, they say. Maybe from one of those Orbs, who knows? My relative informed me that she met with this Astraea once, right on Cardassia Prime.”

Kalisi frowned, feeling annoyed with him. “So. You have a relative associated with a dissident group, and you’ve not reported it? Do the authorities know about this Astraea?”

Moset shrugged. “It seems likely. The Obsidian Order does, anyway.”

“Practice of this religion is illegal,” Kalisi said. “It is your duty to share this information with Union officials.”

He looked at her with an expression so patronizing, she wanted to scream. “This relative of mine is someone who means something to me, Kali. Sometimes our personal loyalties are as important as our allegiance to the Union. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Kalisi did not reply, for his proclamation was nothing less than shocking to her. He smiled lightly and stepped forward, cupping her chin in one long-fingered hand, leaning in to kiss her, as if he believed he could erase her disdain with his physical touch. She did what she could to mask her distaste, but it was difficult. Her feelings toward this man had cooled considerably since she’d first met him, and this new revelation wasn’t helping his case any. She’d assumed he was a patriot. Allegiance to the State was what being Cardassian was all about.

The kiss was passionate and lingering, and she felt her body responding in spite of her feelings. Still, she mostly wished he would go away.

When he finally pulled back, she said, “I’ve been offered a job.”

He seemed annoyed that the press of his cool lips hadn’t driven every other thought from her head, but he nodded with feigned interest. “Oh?”

“A position in weapons research, at the University of Culat.”

Moset blinked. “Really? Are you going to accept?”

His tone was matter-of-fact. She hesitated, wondering what she should say, thinking of her father, thinking of the guided genocide that she had become involved with…Thinking of the Bajoran child, of course. She hated that little girl for what she’d done to Kalisi’s carefully tended dreams, for making her reevaluate them so.

“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not now. Our work here is too important.”

“Are you joking?” It was his turn to look surprised. “You should take the job. Granted, what we’re doing here is important, but now that I’ve found a way to replicate the hormone, we’ll be able to synthesize vast amounts of the vaccine in a relatively short period. Within a year, every Bajoran on the planet will be made sterile. Anything else I do here will be…anticlimactic, I suppose.” He shook his head. “I have a few friends who keep apprised of which way the wind is blowing; Cardassia probably won’t be here in another generation, and I see no reason to linger to the disheartening end. If I were offered a university placement studying my true passion, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

“They’d let you leave Bajor?”

“After all I’ve done here? And with the inevitable withdrawal looming? We’re not prisoners, darling. Of course they’d let me go.” He touched her again. “We could go together.”

Kalisi’s thoughts were so far from their relationship that she flinched at his touch. She was thinking that she had to be mad, that she’d finally lost her mind, after all. It was the only way she could account for her sudden decision to act. To rid herself of that small Bajoran face in her mind’s eye.

It won’t hurt a bit, she thought, and let him slide his hands around her waist and up her back, arching to his touch.

15

“ Have a seat, Odo.” The prefect gestured to the chair opposite his desk, and Odo looked at it.

“No, thank you,” he said. He preferred to remain standing.

Dukat’s eyeridge rose, an expression that Odo believed conveyed surprise, though he didn’t know why Dukat would be surprised. He decided maybe he’d better sit, after all.

“That’s better,” the prefect said, smiling now. “Would you care for anything to drink?”

Odo shook his head. “My physiology doesn’t require it,” he told Dukat, not for the first time.

“Oh, yes. Of course. My mistake.”

Odo spoke. “My notes regarding the investigation are ready for your review. I still haven’t found a definitively guilty suspect—”

“Forget the investigation. It’s the death of a single Bajoran man. You did your best, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Odo wondered if Dukat meant to dismiss him from the position for his failure to solve the murder. “I wanted to be sure that I had the right person, you understand, and I haven’t satisfactorily—”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Odo.” Dukat shook his head slowly, folded his arms across his chest. “It’s difficult business, running a place like this, and trying to keep order in place on the whole of Bajor at the same time. Sometimes, certain things have to be overlooked, I suppose.”

“Murder?”

Dukat went on as if he hadn’t heard. “My superiors assign more responsibility to me than I believe I can accept. Events I have no control over…especially not with the limited funds and resources I am appropriated.”

“Indeed,” Odo mumbled, wondering why Dukat had called him here.

“If they would only agree to send a new survey team!” Dukat had unfolded his arms, was gesturing with his hands in the air. “There are brilliant profits to be made, Odo!”

“Profits,” Odo repeated. He thought he knew what the word meant, though he couldn’t remember hearing of it from any of the Bajorans he had known.

“Yes,” Dukat said. “Profits. Monetary wealth.”

Odo nodded. “You can exchange these things for goods and services…”

“And power, yes.” Dukat nodded. “Ask the Ferengi if you need a better explanation.” A corner of his mouth curved upward as he said it, apparently amused. “You’ll make an excellent chief of security if you have no motivation for profit for yourself.”

Odo considered this. “Why?”

Dukat continued to smile. “Because profit is what drives men to immorality.”

“Immorality. So. The Bajorans…they fight your soldiers and steal from you—for profit?” Odo already knew that they did not. Although he was still not entirely certain why they did fight the Cardassians, he knew it was not for profit. He was curious to see what Dukat’s estimation of the Bajoran motive amounted to.

Dukat’s smile slipped away. “In a roundabout sort of way,” he said.

Odo noted the lie to himself. He no longer doubted that Dukat had a shifting sense of integrity. He had come to feel, lately, that his attraction to the Bajoran people had much to do with their general lack of facade. He believed them, when they spoke.

“It is topics just as this one that I fear will prevent me from performing my duties to your satisfaction,” he told the prefect. “Though I have lived among humanoids for some time…I still find your motivations to be puzzling on occasion.”

Dukat nodded. “You were, in a sense, raised by a Bajoran,” he observed, “but you are not a Bajoran, and you never will be.”

Odo said nothing, feeling an odd pang of something like regret, and Dukat smiled again.

“Well, Odo,” he said, “if you have questions, you’d do better to ask me than anyone else.”

“Yes,” Odo said, but he thought he’d probably be better off leaving his questions unanswered than to seek Dukat’s advice.

He waited to be dismissed, but the prefect wasn’t done with him, continuing to speak about political matters that held no interest for Odo. It was difficult to remain captive to Dukat’s speech when Odo didn’t understand half of it and couldn’t begin to imagine what would constitute an appropriate reply, but he realized, after a time, that Dukat wasn’t in the least bit interested in Odo’s opinion. He wanted an audience. In his own way, Odo decided, Dukat was just as lonely as he himself sometimes felt.

It took the prefect a long time to finish his diatribe, and when he finally seemed to run out of steam, Odo took his leave of the Cardassian, seeking out the Ferengi bartender. He found him where he expected him to be, tending to his establishment, making animated conversation with the people who frequented the place. Odo regarded the Ferengi with curiosity; here was a humanoid who looked quite distinctly different from the Bajorans or the Cardassians, and yet, Odo knew that Quark was more like the others than he was like Odo. There was nobody on the station even remotely like Odo—not even the Lurian.

“Can I interest you in an image capture?” The Ferengi spoke without quite looking at Odo, wiping glasses and lining them up behind the bar.

“No, thank you,” Odo replied automatically, without fully comprehending what the Ferengi had just asked him. “That is…What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at me such a long time, I thought you might like a permanent keepsake of my countenance.”

Odo frowned. He knew that he was supposed to be fostering an atmosphere of authority here, and it wouldn’t do to have this Ferengi speak to him this way, especially not in front of the Cardassian patrons. “I just wanted to let you know…that I’m watching you.” He did his best to sound menacing, though he wasn’t sure if his effort had any effect until the Ferengi responded.

Quark turned and smiled so wide it looked like it must be painful for him. “I invite you to watch away,” he said lightly, spreading his hands. “You’ll find that I’m a law-abiding resident of the station, as eager to maintain order as anyone else.”

Odo narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that very much,” he said, his voice hard. He studied the Ferengi’s expression, looking for indicators of dishonesty. He had watched the Bajorans so carefully that he was learning to distinguish among the subtle nuances of their facial repertoire. The Ferengi was different, but not by much. The alien’s grin quavered, almost imperceptibly, but Odo could see that he was frightened. He turned back to the rows of brightly colored glasses that framed the bar, suddenly very interested in rearranging them.

“I’ve come to ask some advice,” Odo said, hastily changing his tone. “Dukat suggested that you could elaborate something for me.”

“What might that be?” Quark asked him, turning back to face him again.

“Profit.”

This time, the Ferengi’s smile was genuine. “Well! You’ve come to the right place!” Quark insisted. “Have a seat—this could take me awhile.”

Odo didn’t need to sit, but he knew it would make the other man more comfortable, and so he sat, listening intently as Quark launched into a very detailed explanation of interest rates, investments, profit margins, and supply and demand.

“They say the market is driven by an invisible hand,” the Ferengi told Odo in a near whisper, as if he were about to share something very confidential. “But we Ferengi know better than that. The market is driven by greed, pure and simple! Greed is the original renewable resource, Constable—may I call you Constable? It is the thing that literally makes the universe expand.”

“The universe expand?”

“Whatever—it’s an expression,” Quark said. “All you need to remember is greed. Greed equals profits, in the long run. You see?”

“Yes,” Odo said, though he actually didn’t. Apparently, greed was the need to…acquire things. Things that humanoids used to…make themselves comfortable. Odo had little perception of the humanoid estimation of “comfort,” though he imagined it was something like what he felt when he was regenerating. Still, humanoids seemed to require a great many things to maintain their comfort. Odo wondered if perhaps Dukat was right about Odo’s own need—or lack of it—for profits. All that Odo required to be comfortable was a suitable vessel for regeneration—and perhaps, the company of at least one agreeable person. As the Ferengi continued to gabble about profits and acquisition and luxury items, Odo thought that it might take him a very long time to understand humaoid motivation, after all.

Kira noted that the Bajoran side of the station seemed a consolidation of the very worst effects of the occupation; the tightly-packed living quarters and strict regulations gave it the appearance of the worst ghettos in the cities planetside, only more desperate, somehow—probably because there was very little chance of escaping. Throngs of people drifted about the darkened Promenade, most of them with a gaunt and miserable set to their features. Kira wondered how long it would be before she started to look just like them—or maybe she already did.

Not much longer, thank the Prophets. A few more days and she’d be slipped onto a transport, and then she’d be home.

Many Bajorans were sitting, or even lying along the Promenade, some of them with rough blankets spread out offering food and wares for sale, some of them simply resting after a hard day’s work in the ore processors. Farther back, a few people had lit cooking fires in old shipping containers, for there were only a handful of replicators on this side of the station, and the mine workers were not allowed to have food in their sleeping quarters, since it was thought to provoke fights and encourage the voles that lived in the maintenance conduits. Kira sidestepped the idle bodies of young and old as she passed.

She walked past several shops, including that of the slain chemist and his wife, and a fairly clean eatery that was primarily patronized by some of the upper-echelon Bajorans who lived here. People who had just received their wages might come here to waste a week’s pay on a single meal, but the clientele was mostly composed of Bajoran merchants, overseers, and probably criminals. Just beyond it was a humbler establishment, a bare room that served weak teas and soups on acceptance of Cardassian-issued ration cards. It was here that Kira was to meet with the constable again. She would have preferred to avoid this encounter, but she had little hope of evading him on this self-contained facility, and to ignore his summons was to invite further attention to herself. It was best to find out what he wanted.

She supposed she should have been afraid that Odo was going to arrest her, but she also supposed he would have done it less ceremoniously than by sending someone to find her and ask if she would meet him at this location. Why not just burst into ore processing with a phaser? No, Kira felt somewhat confident that this meeting concerned something else, though what it was, she could not say.

She spotted him, sitting erect at a table, looking around the room in an unnatural, abrupt manner. He had no food in front of him, which made her feel inexplicably nervous, as though he did not expect this interview to last long. “Don’t you want anything to eat?” she asked him, taking the seat opposite him.

“No,” he said. “I only want to ask you something.”

“I’ve told you all I know about Vaatrik,” she said. “What more do you want with me?”

“My investigation into the chemist’s death is over,” Odo told her, and she felt herself tense further at the welcome news. Was this about the resistance, then? She had admitted her involvement with them, though she had done it to keep his attention from Vaatrik’s death. She believed he would not turn her in, though she was not sure why.

“Go on.”

He blinked. “Were you ever…at the Bajoran Institute of Science?”

Kira was immediately puzzled. “Excuse me?” She scoured her mind for the reference—she had heard of it, of course, but then…

“The Bajoran Institute of Science. Have you ever been there?”

Kira did not know how to answer. She had confirmed to the alien that she was in the resistance movement, so it shouldn’t condemn her any further if she admitted that she had been there once. Many years ago, the Shakaar cell had broken into the facility. They had used the institute’s transporter for the mission to Gallitep. But how could this alien know anything of that incident? She felt fear creep in; perhaps he wasabout to arrest her.

“Never mind,” the alien said, and stood to go. He nodded politely at her, a kind of stiff bow, and took his leave.

Kira stared after him, not sure what to make of his question. The heavyset Bajoran who operated the eatery approached her, then. He was corpulent, obviously in league with the Cardassians to be so overfed; Kira hated him immediately.

“Only patrons sit here,” he said.

Kira scowled, annoyed at the slight. “What about him?” she asked, tossing her head in the constable’s direction as he went out the door.

The man snorted. “He works for the spoonheads! He can do what he wants.”

Kira stood to go. “So can I,” she said menacingly, staring the man down for a moment, but then recognized the foolish bravado for what it was—fear, masquerading as defiance. She turned from him sharply, heading for the exit. It appeared she’d gotten away with killing one collaborator. Better not to press her luck.