Текст книги "Dawn of the Eagles "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Gene Rodenberry,Britta Dennison
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

OCCUPATION YEAR FORTY-ONE

2368 (Terran Calendar)

19

Tahna Los always appreciated a good excuse to shimmy through the tunnels and speak to Nerys, though Shakaar was usually hovering over them while they talked. The cell leader was ever trying to project his “brotherly” vibe, but Tahna knew better. Edon was a notorious womanizer, and though he hadn’t made any advances toward Nerys that Tahna knew about, it was only a matter of time. Anyway, Edon had been bickering with Biran and Jouvirna more than usual lately—trifling over “ethics” as always. Tahna was thankful that on this day, Edon was off in another cavern with Mobara, looking over some piece of equipment or other.

“What do you want now, Tahna?” Nerys griped. She hadn’t been doing anything in particular, as far as Tahna could tell. She held a padd in one hand—she had probably been reading something. But she always had to make a show of being annoyed by him. In truth, Tahna welcomed it. After the last time he had been captured by the Cardassians, Kira had been awkward with him for a while, apparently out of guilt—or pity. But now that time had passed, Nerys’s manner with him was starting to drift back toward the familiar, and Tahna couldn’t have been happier that she was short with him today. “Don’t tell me the grid is already back online,” she said.

The cells had made numerous attempts to permanently knock out the sensor towers, but the Cardassians were always quick to repair them. Every time they went back online, Kira and Tahna began a wager to see which cell would be first to take them out again. It was unfair, since the Shakaar cell had twice the members of the Kohn-Ma, and pointless, since the two cells were practically converged at this point, but Tahna felt it was useful to have the incentive—especially since he had grown so familiar with what could happen when you got caught.

“They are,” Tahna told her, “but there’s more to it than that, this time. I’ve just gotten my hands on a schematic.” He pulled an isolinear rod out of his jerkin. “Trentin Fala brought it to us, stolen from the Cardassian records office in Tempasa. Blueprints.”

Kira frowned. “What’s the target?”

Tahna smiled broadly. “The grind itself—at the source! We won’t have to waste our time taking out the towers over and over again, waiting for the spoonheads to just reinstall them every single time. We can sabotage the telemetry processing system on Terok Nor—”

Kira interrupted him. “Terok Nor!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “No. No, Tahna, I’m never going back to that station. Ever.”

“Don’t be stupid, Nerys. If we could shut down that grid for good, then we’ll never have to argue about knocking out those towers ever again. Anyway, you’ve already been there, you know your way around—and you’re the only one of us who can beat the grid long enough to figure out a way to get smuggled onto a penal transport.”

Kira interrupted him again by snatching the rod from his hands.

“Watch it with that thing!” he warned her as she jammed the isolinear rod into her padd. “It’s not like I can just ask Fala for another copy!”

Kira ignored him as she looked over the schematic, her lips moving slightly as she read. “I’m not going to Terok Nor,” she said without looking up. Tahna started to interrupt, but Kira spoke over him. “I have another idea,” she said. “I know someone on the station who can help us.”

Tahna shook his head. “No, Nerys. There are only a handful of resistance people left on the station, not enough to—”

“The person I’m talking about isn’t in the resistance,” she said, handing him back the isolinear rod.

“Well then, how do you propose to…?” Tahna stopped after seeing the look on Kira’s face. She could convey her emotions with a single look better than anyone Tahna had ever encountered, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that she intimidated him a bit. She intimidated nearly everyone, even those who were older than she was, though it hadn’t always been so. She was a far cry now from the skinny and eager little girl who had joined the resistance over a decade ago.

“He’s not in the resistance,” she said. “He’s in security.”

Tahna looked at her doubtfully. “In security?”

Kira finally smiled. “He’s the chief, actually.”

Keeve Falor did not often have reason to contact Bajor anymore. He knew that Kalem Apren and others on the surface had been trying to coerce him into helping them with their grandiose plans for a very long time, but Keeve couldn’t see much point to it. It was all he could do just to keep the people on his adopted world from starvation; he had very little reason to fool around with subspace communication system anymore.

But today was different. Something had happened in the past week, and Bajor needed to know it. In Keeve’s estimation, Kalem Apren wasBajor, being one of the very few former politicians from his homeworld that Keeve still trusted. Keeve had come to the old hangar on Valo II, the place where ships had once arrived and departed with some measure of regularity—but it was no longer like that here, or anywhere else on this world, for fuel was an import that the people of Valo II could not afford to squander without sufficient cause. The Bajorans of Valo II used the hangar for storage of salvaged parts, but it could also function as a communications center if necessary. A few of these ships still had functional communications equipment, and now that the long-range relays on Derna had been repaired, it was possible to send messages to Bajor, if the need ever arose. It seemed to Keeve Falor that the need had finally arisen.

“Apren,” Keeve spoke into the pickup, adjusting for interference. He hoped the signal would be strong enough. As he tapped the interface, he could pick up bits of chatter, both Cardassian and Bajoran, coming from Jeraddo, from Valo III, from Terok Nor, from Bajor herself. He fine-tuned the connection when he recognized the Bajoran signal code on the comm’s battered readout.

“Apren,” Keeve spoke the name again. “Kalem Apren. This is an attempt to reach Kalem Apren, of the Kendra Valley.” The channel was almost certainly wide open and traceable, but there was nothing that could be done about it—and it scarcely mattered, since the Cardassians already knew the piece of news that Keeve intended to pass along.

“This is Jaro Essa of Kendra Valley,”a voice finally acknowledged. “Who calls?”

“Jaro, it’s Keeve Falor. I am trying to reach Kalem Apren, but I don’t have the specific channel.”

“Keeve! I will bring Kalem here! He will be glad to hear your voice!”

The line went silent but for a smattering of interference and a faint wavering suggestion of another conversation coming in on a similar channel. Keeve waited patiently until someone else spoke, someone out of breath.

“This is Kalem Apren,”a crackling voice finally dispatched from Keeve’s aged system. “Falor, is that you?”

“It is me, Apren.”

“I am pleased to hear that you are still among the living! Tell me, how are things on Valo II?”

“Difficult,” Keeve said grimly, unaccustomed to the idea of friendly small talk—but then, Apren did always have a talent for being a bit glib, a talent that was helpful in his political career. “I have contacted you, Apren, because of a recent incident in which I was put in touch with a Federation captain.”

“The Federation!”Apren exclaimed. “Was this a fruitful encounter for us?”

“I would like to hope so,” Keeve replied, but he knew he did not sound optimistic—for he wasn’t. “You must know that I am not especially hopeful where they are concerned…however, I did feel that this encounter was relevant enough to pass the word on to you. The captain with whom I spoke was able to get a firsthand look at the colony here. He had a better idea, I think, of what we are dealing with than Jas Holza has ever given him—”

“This is very relevant!”Apren replied with enthusiasm. “Things have changed now, Falor. Surely the Federation can see that our current Bajoran government is nothing but an ineffective figurehead. They must have enough sense to deduce what has happened here.”

“They spoke of diplomacy,” Keeve said, “But we both know where that will lead us—into more of the same. You know how the Federation operates. I suppose I wish it were otherwise, but ultimately, I am skeptical.”

“You always were,”Apren replied. The static was getting markedly worse. “The Fed…ration…id they leave you…means…contact…them?”

“Only through Jas Holza, but he is reluctant to jeopardize his own standing with the Federation,” Keeve replied.

“Any…ther way to reach…m?”

Keeve considered. “I could relay a message to the border colonies, which will eventually find its way to the Federation,” Keeve said. “But…I am not sure what we could say to them to make them change their strategy to a proactive one. I imagine they intend to simply discuss it among themselves before choosing to do nothing—just as they did fifty years ago.”

“There was protocol that…required to follow,”Apren said.

“Federation protocol is exactly the reason we cannot rely on them,” Keeve said.

“What…bout J…olza. He once sp…e…bout…pons.”

“Your signal is getting weaker, Apren. Could you repeat that?”

“I can’t…you’re…could…”

“Too much interference,” Keeve said, though it was futile.

“…if…contact…Nechayev…”

Frustrated, Keeve disconnected the comm, deciding to wait until later to place another call. But he’d said all that needed to be said on the subject, and he doubted anything would come of it. It might someday prove beneficial to be on the Federation’s radar, but then, it had been fifty years since the Federation was here last, and they had done nothing to help Bajor in all that time. Keeve himself had kept in touch with a few Federation people, who had tried to learn something of the Cardassians in the Valo system. The reconnaissance had eventually gone awry, thanks to a single blunder on the part of a teenager named Ro Laren, and Keeve had lost touch with those people. He shook his head, remembering the past version of Ro Laren, the little girl who had single-handedly managed to sever his ties to the Federation. Strange, that it had been Ro to connect them once more, just these few days ago. In his wildest dreams, he would not have imagined that she would have gone on to join the Federation, and yet, there she had been, wearing the uniform of Starfleet.

It was thanks to Ro that her Captain Picard had managed to come through in an ugly situation with a resistance fighter named Orta, an accomplishment that had surprised Keeve not a little. Keeve had thought he’d seen the last of that girl just before she’d run away—and there was a part of him that wished he hadseen the last of her. In all his life, he had never met a more volatile teenager than she had been. If she was going to be the person to represent Bajor to the larger galaxy, Keeve had serious reservations that anything useful could come of it. No, he decided, as he left the old hangar, it would be unproductive to invest any hope in this situation. He had not given up hope entirely—but he hadgiven up hope in any possibility of rescue from the United Federation of Planets.

Gran Tolo walked along the Bajoran side of the Promenade, keeping his eyes out for anyone who might pose a threat. There were the Cardassians, of course, but there were also the more insidious enemies: Bajoran pickpockets and collaborating snitches, and, of course, the shape-shifting chief of security. Today, though, it was the shape-shifter that Gran sought, for he’d received a message from a resistance cell that insisted the so-called constable could help them.

Gran stopped in front of a shop that sold used clothing and rags, trying to look inconspicuous while he waited for the shape-shifter. He picked up a lone shoe from a rack of mismatched odds and ends in front of the little store, pretending to inspect it though he had no need for a single shoe, and even if he had, he couldn’t have afforded it—very few Bajorans could have. This shop was almost certainly a front for something else, but whether the Cardassians endorsed it or not, Gran didn’t know. It was difficult to trust anyone in this place.

He dropped the shoe as it began to shimmer in his hand, and he took a step back, realizing that he’d just been examining the chief of security.

“Hello.” The shape-shifter addressed him in a slightly condescending manner. Gran swallowed.

“I’m Gran Tolo,” he said uncertainly. The shape-shifter’s expression suggested that Gran was about to make a terrible mistake.

“How very nice to meet you,” the shape-shifter said with a trace of irritation. “I’m a very busy man, Mr. Gran, and I’d appreciate it if you’d inform me as to why you’ve asked to see me.”

Gran dropped his voice, so nervous he couldn’t remember exactly what he was supposed to say. “I’m bringing you a message from the resistance movement on the surface.”

Odo looked more annoyed. “I have no interest in the goings-on of the resistance movement,” he said sharply. “My job is to maintain order, not foster chaos. Is it possible you have me confused with someone else, Mr. Gran?”

Gran shook his head, though he feared that very possibility. He was beginning to panic, still unsure of what it was he was supposed to say. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I was told you might sometimes help… certainBajorans.”

“I could arrest you right now for that implication,” Odo said, and as he spoke, his hand extended, became a tentacle that wrapped itself around Gran’s wrists. Gran pulled, but he found the restraint to be impervious to his own strength.

“Kira Nerys!” Gran blurted, remembering at last. “That’s the name I’m supposed to tell you! She said you—”

Odo hesitated for a brief moment, and then the tentacle unwound itself from Gran’s hands, melting back into an arm. The shape-shifter spoke. “I will speak to Kira,” he said, “but I will not speak to you.”

“I can give you a communication code,” Gran said, not sure if it was yet prudent to feel relief. “She’s expecting your call.”

Odo’s tone was not quite so nasty now. “You will accompany me to my office.”

Gran was still nervous, but he knew he mustn’t falter now. The resistance movement depended on him, and if this plan could be carried out, it would strike a significant blow to the Cardassians. It was worth the risk of a few hours in the brig—or worse, really. He reminded himself of this repeatedly as he followed the constable back down the Promenade, and toward the security office, hoping hard that he wasn’t about to find out what the inside of a cell looked like.

Dukat had been up all night in ops; there had been a situation down in the fusion core—an imbalance in the reaction chambers that threatened to blow out the entire ion energy network, if not for the quick thinking of the chief of engineering. Perhaps too quick,Dukat thought. Dalin Kedat’s talent for keeping Terok Nor functioning at optimum levels seemed exceptional, but Dukat sometimes wondered if he succeeded in creating that impression merely by surrounding himself with lesser men, who, while not incompetent, were certainly far less efficient when not under Kedat’s direct supervision.

But while the initial crisis was resolved with relative ease, investigation into the cause led to Kedat’s discovering evidence of sabotage in the generator control system, necessitating an all-night search for more signs of tampering. Odo was of course called in immediately, and Dukat wound up virtually chained to the ops situation table as he spent the night monitoring the progress of the enineering and security teams. In the end, the cause was found to be a time-delayed software virus, one that apparently had been entered into the system months ago and remained undetected until it suddenly went active. Purging the system of the malicious code would be relatively easy, according to Kedat. Finding the saboteur after so much time and turnover would be next to impossible, according to Odo.

Dukat was thoroughly exhausted when a call came through from Legate Kell, demanding privacy. Dukat reluctantly climbed the short staircase to his office, letting the doors close behind him and experiencing the persistent ache of a restless night as he seated himself behind his desk.

“Legate,” he said.

“Gul,”the Legate replied, seeming excited enough about something that he scarcely noticed the resigned rudeness in the prefect’s tone. “I have lately been thinking a great deal about the current treaty with the Federation. This will give us a chance to re-direct some of Cardassia’s resources to the B’hava’el system. It will require careful planning on your part, to see that those resources are utilized properly.”

Dukat was insulted; he scarcely needed the Legate to point out his job to him, and it stung him that nobody seemed to recall that he himself had suggested a Federation treaty some time ago, with this very result in mind. But he merely smiled. “Of course.”

“I strongly advise you to reorganize the Bajoran cabinet. With more troops in place on Bajor, you will have the opportunity to finally improve the situation on your host world. But unless you give the Bajorans some indication that you actually mean to change your policies—”

“My Bajoran cabinet has been loyal and effective,” Dukat interrupted. He had no desire to replace Kubus Oak or any of the others—not now, and not ever. He had always assumed that when those fools finally died off, it would be best to just leave those seats empty, or fill them with Cardassians.

Dukat had lately come to consider the bigger picture of the Bajoran venture, extending much further than the span of his life. When the older generation of Bajorans—those who actually had some memory of their world before the annexation—died out, Cardassia would begin to enjoy full-scale success on this world. In the meantime, they would have to continue to put down Bajoran revolts as they emerged, developing better weapons if they could, and occasionally accepting minor setbacks. But in the end, it would all prove worthwhile, he believed, for the next generation of Cardassians, who could expect to colonize this world permanently. The Bajorans would fall in line once they began to accept the natural superiority of Cardassian ideals. Of course, Dukat could not put voice to his prediction, for he knew that he might not live to see it come true—and it would never come true if the Detapa Council accused him of buying time to cater to his own agenda. No, the civilian government wanted immediate results, without recognizing the long-term benefits of waiting for larger returns on their Bajoran investment. Dukat believed that those returns could be tremendous, but they would require patience, something that had always been in short supply at the Detapa Council.

“Secretary Kubus is the most loyal and effective Bajoran I’ll ever meet,” Dukat said. “I have no desire to replace him with someone who is likely to ply me with radical ideas—or worse, stab me in the back.”

“If you recall, you once told me that Basso Tromac was also loyal and effective—and he disappeared, didn’t he?”

“He was likely killed by someone in ore processing with a vendetta,” Dukat said, though he feared another possibility. Of course, it was true that Basso’s disappearance had occurred right about the same time that Nerys had slipped from Dukat’s careful grasp…but he preferred to think of that incident as little as possible.

“If your Bajoran adjutant could be murdered on your own space station, the crime so perfectly covered up as to provide neither body nor suspect, then you may wish to reconsider your level of control there,”Kell said. “Perhaps you need a new chief of security, as well.”

Dukat glowered in response. “The shape-shifter does a better job than Thrax Sa’kat ever did,” he said. “Besides, the last thing we want is for Odo to fall sympathetic to the Bajoran cause. The best place for him is here, where I can keep an eye on him.”

Kell snorted. “Keep your shape-shifter, then. But I stand by my recommendation for a new cabinet. You would do best to simply execute the current Bajoran officials. Accuse them of disloyalty, and then make a public spectacle of it. You could then ensure full cooperation from whoever replaces them.”

Dukat straightened out his features. “I will consider it,” he said, though he had no intention of doing any such thing; he was merely hoping to get rid of the old man so he could get some sleep. His wish was quickly granted, as the legate signed off, and Dukat wasted no time in alerting the duty officer in ops that he would take no more calls for the day. He had already decided against paying a call on his newest Bajoran mistress, though the relationship was very young and she had already proven a bit petulant; there were times when sleep took precedence over virtually everything else, even for the prefect.

The woman could speak to him only via voice transmission, but Odo still felt quite certain that it was really her. It had been the sound of Kira’s voice that had finally brought her identity back to him those few years ago, had made him remember the incident at the Bajoran Institute of Science. It was there, in Mora’s laboratory, where he had first heard the sound of her voice, from the tank where he regenerated. He had experienced a strange, unfamiliar desire to listen to her voice, to be near her. He remembered it well even now, as he spoke to her on his computer console from Terok Nor.

“So, will you help me, Constable?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I still don’t understand why you’ve come to me.”

“Because!”she said, clearly exasperated. “You helped me before, Odo. I trusted you then, and I want to trust you now. I believe that ultimately—despite your position, I mean—you are on our side.”

“I’m on nobody’s side,” Odo said firmly.

“If that’s true, then why did you help me before? Why not just arrest me?”

“Because,” he said, not immediately sure how to follow it up. “I…suppose I regarded you as an individual, in need of help. It wasn’t your cause that provoked my sympathy, it was just…it was just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Odo said. He really didn’t know. It was true that he had helped her once, and it was therefore true that he had helped the Bajoran resistance movement once, too. But he’d been much less experienced then. He had been reacting to his immediate circumstances without thinking through the consequences.

“You’re lying,”the woman said. “You knew the Cardassians were wrong then, and you know it now.”

“Do I?” Odo said, trying to sound threatening, but it fell flat.

“Yes, you do. You’re not one of them, Odo. You’re one of us.”

“What does being one of ‘them’ entail, exactly?”

“It entails being…evil. Being a thief. A lazy, bullying thief. You’re not like that.”

Odo had the distinct sense that she was trying to manipulate him with this kind of talk, but the trouble was, it was working. “No,” he finally said. “I’m not like that.”

“Then you’ll help us?”

Odo nodded, though he knew she could not see it; the nod was more for himself than it was for her. “Yes,” he said.

“Good,”she said, accepting his acquiescence without ceremony. “Your role is twofold, but most of it will not be in any way out of character for you. The primary thing we need for you to do is to distract Dukat. Do you think you can do that?”

Odo almost laughed. In fact, it was often all he could do to get rid of Dukat, when the man sought company. “I think I can,” he told her.

After the transmission had ended, Odo second-guessed the security of the line. Nobody had been listening, as far as he could tell, but he knew that if someone meant to overhear, there wasn’t much he could do. He suspected that Dukat didn’t really trust him, despite the man’s repeated attempts to strike up confidential chats. Now that Odo had so few allies on the station—Russol was long gone, and Odo had made few friends on the Bajoran side—he had to constantly watch his back. Fortunately, for a shape-shifter, watching one’s back was an easy affair.

Why washe helping this Bajoran woman? Was it simply because he was intrigued by her, the first Bajoran woman he had ever encountered, so long ago at the institute, or did it go deeper than that? He supposed he had never really been able to sympathize with Dukat’s perspective, had never agreed with the Cardassian occupation in general, especially not since he had finally begun to understand the many facets of it. And yet, he had continued on at this station, with his job in security, sometimes staying true to his own code of ethics, and occasionally submitting to Dukat’s version of things just in order to maintain simplicity and stay beneath the radar of the Cardassians here. Odo didn’t want to leave Terok Nor—it came down to that. For he still hoped he would someday learn news of his own people, and he supposed this was the best place in the B’hava’el system to do that.

But now he risked it all—and why? He did not believe that it was strictly out of loyalty to whatever imagined relationship he had with Kira Nerys. No, it went deeper than that, he supposed. While he had often told himself that it had nothing to do with him, he had pretended often enough that he did not notice the disparity between Bajoran and Cardassian. Maybe now it was time to do something about it.

Cardassia City was atypically bleak and overcast. In the old times, it was said that portions of what was now the Western Hemisphere had been dotted all over with thick, lush forests, heavy with rainfall. But an atmospheric calamity of uncertain origin had let to centuries of drought, and the forests had all been shortsightedly cut down. The soil beneath the fertile canopy had, after a single generation of unsustainable farming, withdrawn from deep, silty black topsoil to the parched sands that were so well-known beyond the periphery of the cities. Desert now, where it had once been rain forest.

If only my ancestors had known better,Kutel Esad thought to himself. The dense, verdant forests that had once existed on Cardassia Prime were all but forgotten. Historians and archaeologists had an inkling of what the old landscape had looked like, and of course, the Oralians knew—because it was described in the Recitations. But most modern Cardassians were entirely unaware of the paradise their planet had once been.

Esad walked for a long time, making his way through the city’s orderly sectors, navigating the tangled streets until he came to a particular residential neighborhood. Esad had been to this part of town only a few times; most of his business was conducted in the center of the city, and he lived in the area where the Paldar Sector met Tarlak, near the headquarters of the Obsidian Order.

Here in Coranum Sector, with its old, stately, and grand houses, Esad found the residence he was looking for, climbed the many steps to the front entrance, and knocked politely. He was greeted almost immediately by a servant of the Reyar family.

“I have business with Yannik Reyar,” he said, and the servant, a young man, stepped aside with a deferential bow. Of course the family’s staff would all have an idea of what sort of “business” was conducted by Yannik Reyar, though it would have been unheard of for an agent to actually make a showing at his own residence. Still, Esad had no doubt the servants gossiped among themselves about any unknown visitors. Little did they know that an agent of the Obsidian Order worked among them—in fact, Reyar himself did not even know it.

Esad was greeted in the foyer by Reyar after a short time. He was a tall man with carefully trimmed hair and expensive clothes. His job came with a great deal of risk, and for that, he was well paid. He scrutinized Esad with a quizzical look. Reyar and Esad had never met, at least not in person, and no doubt Yannik was trying to place him from the scattered communiqués that had been delivered from the office of Enabran Tain in decades past.

“Do I…know you?” Reyar finally asked.

“Sir, I am here as a friend, to give you information regarding your daughter.”

Reyar’s face darkened. “My daughter,” he said softly. “Perhaps you had better come with me.” He gestured down the hall to a darkened, windowless chamber, surrounded on all sides by stacks of isolinear rods and old-fashioned books. Esad surmised this was Reyar’s personal office.

Reyar closed the door behind him, and Esad sat down, wasting no time in getting to the point. “Mr. Reyar, I know you have been looking for your daughter for some time, after she failed to make her scheduled appearance at the University of Culat…”

“It was Dost Abor,” the man said, without hesitation. “No matter what lengths the Order has gone to to cover it up, I know it was Abor.” He struggled to keep a handle on his obvious rage. “You are going to tell me that it was her lover, whoever he was, but I am no fool, sir. I know it was—”

“I am here to confirm your suspicions,” Esad said. “Indeed, Dost Abor is responsible for your daughter’s death.”

“Her…death…” Reyar said, sinking deeper into his chair. For a terrible moment, the man could not speak, and as the shock wore away from his face, he fought tears, fought them valiantly and in vain. Esad expected this reaction, but he had not prepared himself for it. He looked away, giving the man a moment to compose himself again.

“So,” Reyar said, choking on his words, “you have come to betray your colleague. Do you do this for revenge? Has the man done something to you, Mr….” he stopped, realizing that Esad had not introduced himself.

“No,” Esad said. “In all honesty, Mr. Reyar, I come to do what I believe is right. I acted as adjutant to Enabran Tain for many years, and I was often forced to do things that compromised my own values—for what I perceived to be good reasons. But the ultimate fate of your daughter is something with which I cannot come to peaceful terms. I felt that perhaps…in at least letting you know of her true fate…”

“You could absolve yourself?” Reyar’s tone indicated that he did not think so.

Esad hesitated. “Something like that,” he said. It was true that Kalisi Reyar had tried to betray Astraea’s location, but Esad himself was partially responsible for dragging Kalisi into the matter in the first place—for it was he who had brought her to the facility at Valo VI, the first time Abor had questioned her. For his role in it, Esad had always felt unsettled, that there was still a loose end that he could never hope to reweave.