Текст книги "Dawn of the Eagles "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Gene Rodenberry,Britta Dennison
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

He thought of the Ferengi, that ridiculous idiom repeating itself: When it rains, it rains extremely hard…

“Get me a diagnostic of the most vulnerable sites on the surface,” he barked. “I need troops in place anywhere that is susceptible to insurgent attacks.”

The dalin at communications spoke up. “There are literally hundreds of them, sir—could you be more specific?”

The female glinn working the sciences station spoke up, confirming the desolate news. “Sir. The entire detection grid has gone dark, sir.”

Dukat took a breath, reminding himself that this was not yet cause for panic. If the Bajorans were not aware that the grid was off line, then unrest on the surface was unlikely—at least, for now. He made a quick mental list of the precautions that must be taken, before the same female glinn spoke with urgency in her voice.

“A report, sir, forwarded from a manufacturing facility in Dahkur—it suggests that insurgents have attacked, but the signal was only partial, they can’t confirm…”

“Gul Dukat, there is a red alert coming in from the military base on the outskirts of Musilla Province!”

“A facility in Gerhami Province has gone offline!”

“Another report, sir, from Ilvia—”

More shouts, console lights winking and pulsing, simultaneous reports of scattered disasters, and Dukat felt his internal temperature plummeting, becoming as cold as his space station. This was not accidental, nor, likely, was the distraction of the environmental malfunction. This was sabotage, a carefully planned attack, and it had occurred on the prefect’s watch—on his own station.

21

The man who now stood at the podium was proving himself to be a poor speaker. Though it had been arranged far in advance of this date that he would preside over the meeting, Natima suspected that he felt uneasy with the location she had chosen—an empty classroom at the University of Prekiv, Natima’s alma mater and current place of employment.

Natima had worked very hard to get to her current position; in just under five years, she had earned a postgraduate position as an assistant professor in the political sciences department. She continued to take classes in her spare time, and expected to be a full-fledged professor within the next two years; Natima was nothing if not driven. But she was also nothing if not cautious about her own political status as a dissident, and she would not have agreed to host the meeting if she were not confident that the meeting would be private.

She knew that most of the staff here at the university were sympathetic to her causes, particularly those professors who worked in her department. Natima was confident that any members of the university staff who felt otherwise could not touch her. She had flourished within the precise hierarchy of the university system, and she knew her place in it. This classroom was by far the safest public location the group could have chosen to meet in—safer than in a private residence, for large gatherings at people’s homes were often secretly monitored by the government. Universities were generally better protected from that sort of intrusion, enjoying a certain measure of lenience in the name of education. Cardassians still valued education and knowledge very highly in the great scheme of their society, for it was the Cardassians’ superior knowledge that had allowed their scientific community to be one of the most advanced in the galaxy.

The soundproof room was large, with chairs arranged in semicircular rows before a podium in the center. The design of the classroom, with graduated tiers rising up to the back of the room, made amplification devices unnecessary, helping to ensure that conversation was not likely to be monitored. Natima had personally checked for listening devices, and as she had expected, there were none. But Dr. Tuken, a professor from the settlement in the Cuellar system who had been chosen to chair the meeting this afternoon, still appeared too ill at ease to speak freely. His statements were vague, his intentions unclear. Natima felt a little annoyed, for she took the man’s unease as a sign of his mistrust in her. She found his overly cautious, halting manner to be distracting, as well.

She glanced across the room to Gaten Russol, now a gul in the military, and saw from his expression that he was thinking the same thing that she was. After so many years of friendship, she could read him like a book. He met her eye, and then he stood.

“Thank you, Doctor Tuken,” Russol said smoothly, “for that introduction. I have a few items that I wish to address.”

“Of course, Gul Russol,” Tuken said, and stepped down from the podium. If he resented the interruption, he didn’t show it; nearly everyone knew to defer to Gul Russol. If their unnamed movement had a leader, it was Gaten Russol, and while the membership remained only somewhere in the hundreds, the squabbling and lack of direction of days past was gone now. The small, committed groups around the Union had mostly narrowed their focus toward common goals.

“Regarding my communication with the Federation,” Russol began, which brought up a faint murmur from a few people seated around the room. Talk of Federation correspondence was probably the riskiest topic anyone could have chosen to address out loud, even taking the new treaty into consideration. It was certainly an attention getter. Natima thought he may have deliberately chosen it to offset Tuken’s cautious approach, and watched with mounting interest. Her friend seemed especially intense this day, his shoulders tight, his expression grim.

“The talks have been mostly fruitless,” he went on. “The Federation adheres to a very strict set of rules regarding involvement in other worlds’ affairs. They are reluctant to help us, especially now that they have a treaty with our government. The treaty has, unfortunately, weakened our position with our own people, for there were many who felt that the struggles over the border territories were drawing strength from the Union. Now, many of those Cardassian subjects who were beginning to lose faith in the military government have been placated by the treaty.”

Natima nodded, along with many of the others. The movement had lost a few of its followers as a result of the treaty, although most of the people involved with the dissidents felt that Cardassia’s social, political, and economic woes could not be solved with one insincere treaty. Natima was sure the treaty was simply a means for Central Command to buy some time while it plotted its next move. But even if it had been genuine, the treaty was no better than a sticky plaster over a terminal hemorrhage.

“We all know that Cardassia has problems that extend far beyond the border colonies,” Russol said, echoing Natima’s thoughts. “The violence on Bajor is worse than ever. Even more perplexing, it is said that the resources there will not last another generation—but Central Command will not admit that it is time to withdraw our presence on that annexed world. And yet—” Russol paused dramatically to look around the room at his friends and cohorts. “What if we did pull out of Bajor? What would happen then?”

More murmuring as people in the audience muttered the answers to themselves and to the people seated near them. Russol spoke again, his eyes shining passionately. “Some say our government would simply look for another world to exploit, instead of drawing on the strengths of our own world, our own people—we would look for other worlds to conquer, instead of forming alliances that could help Cardassia become self-sufficient. But I do not see that as a foregone conclusion.

“We know that the Detapa Council has relatively little power in our governmental structure. In leaner times, our world was forced to defer to the military, stripping the power away from our civilian leaders. However, a majority vote coming from that body can still make certain decisions for Cardassia Prime. The issue, as we all know, is that the varied interests of the council members has made it all but impossible to achieve a majority vote on anything. We know it, and Central Command knows it. But what if this were to change?”

Russol leaned forward on the podium, as if to draw his audience physically closer for what he was about to say. “We can’t rely on the Federation, or anyone else, to help us anymore,” he said. “It’s time for more drastic measures. We have talked long enough, and now we have to act.”

A hush had fallen over the room, until someone finally spoke. “What are you proposing, Gul Russol?” It was Dr. Tuken, his voice trembling slightly.

“We cannot expect any change to come about from the military—we need the Detapa Council to be on our side,” he said. “In recent years, with no small thanks to the efforts of the people here, many of the civilian leaders on the council have begun to favor a position very much like our own. In fact,” he added, “there is more than one member of the Detapa Council taking an active involvement in our movement.”

A number of people looked surprised, others seemed to know exactly of whom he was speaking. He did not say it, but Natima assumed he meant Kotan Pa’Dar—Russol would never confirm that the man was a dissenter, but Natima had long believed it was true.

“The division of power in the Detapa Council still swings in the general direction of Central Command, however. But if one seat on the council were to go vacant—were to be filled by a sympathizer—the balance would tip in our direction. Yoriv Skyl, who is an exarch at one of the Bajoran settlements, is poised to take the next open seat. I believe that Skyl would vote in favor of withdrawal, if the issue were to come to the council. Legate Ghemor and a few other important people with influence over Central Command mean to bring the item up for decision in less than one year.”

A few of the people in attendance looked poised to applaud, optimism quickly spreading from one person to the next. But Russol was quick to interrupt them.

“Our problem, of course, is how to make that position…vacant. How can we guarantee the dismissal of tyrannical and corrupt civilian prefects and exarchs when their terms have no limit? What can we do?”

The room fell absolutely silent, and Natima’s heart sank as she recognized the rhetorical questions for what they were, what Russol was suggesting. It seemed impossible, a stretch of character she would not have imagined of him, but the gravity in his voice was unmistakable. He was so desperate to pull his world’s involvement out of Bajor that he would condone assassination.

“It is for the good of Cardassia,” he said calmly.

“Is there no other way?” Natima asked, before he could put voice to the details.

“There is one other alternative,” he said, his tone belying no emotion at all. “But I believe that a few selected eliminations would be preferable to a coup, which may not produce the desired effect, and will almost certainly result in more deaths.”

Still, no one spoke, and Russol continued to sweep his gaze across the room, making steady eye contact with each person in attendance, one at a time. “I would not propose such a thing if I did not believe that it was necessary, and that now is the optimum time to act. The only time to act.”

Someone cleared his throat, and a quiet chatter began to rise once more. “But, Gul Russol,” someone called out, “how can we advocate for peace and murder at the same time?”

“We can’t,” Russol told him. “We simply must accept that we are forced to compromise our values in order to achieve the desired result—for the greater good. But it is as I say—there is no other way.”

Many questions followed, which resulted in a few short arguments, but most were quelled by Russol’s blunt responses. He had examined the issue from every angle, he informed the room, and he firmly believed that the time to strike was now.

After a good hour of moderately heated discussion, a vote was taken, and though Natima was hesitant to do so, she lent her support to Russol’s proposal. In the end, Natima was not the only one who chose to agree to Russol’s controversial tactics. When Dr. Tuken tallied the votes, Natima was surprised to learn that a strong majority had voted for it as well.

So this is what we’ve come to,she thought, looking around the room at downcast eyes, faces that seemed to reflect less patriotic zeal than usual. The vote had been secret, but the looks on the faces of those present were clear enough to reveal who had voted for the advocacy of murders—the deliberate killing of Union members—and who had not. Natima knew her own expression was far from innocent. Are we any better than that which we seek to overthrow?

“Don’t patronize me, Kubus,” Dukat snapped. “I am fully aware that I look like a complete fool right now. To the Bajorans—and to my superiors in Central Command.”

Kubus Oak coughed, quickly losing hope that this conversation would be brief, his placating manner seen for what it was. He disliked the prefect’s office, preferring to keep his conversations with Dukat confined to the infinitely more comfortable comm system; but ever since Basso Tromac had vanished, Dukat had begun to treat Kubus more like an assistant than a political cohort. It wasn’t as though their relationship had ever been on much of an even keel, but Kubus had never felt so much like a subordinate as in recent years, and it seemed to be getting worse as time went by. “As I was saying, it wasan unfortunate incident,” he said, “but there is no need to—”

“Incident?” Dukat laughed. “You speak as though this is some past event! My men have been unable to repair the detection grid on a global scale, Kubus, and we have only been able to maintain secondary systems in a few locales. Someone is going to pay for this.”

Kubus was ready for him. “I have heard a great many rumors from my contacts,” he offered. “They believe this is primarily the work of terrorists in Dahkur. They hide somewhere in the hills, though there has been no physical evidence of their exact location. It might be preferable to simply…” Kubus hesitated as he noticed that Dukat was shaking his head, but he uncertainly went on, “…destroy the entire region…”

“No,” Dukat told him. “There are valuable commodities in that part of Dahkur. Minerals, timber…Give me someone else, Secretary.”

“Someone else?” Kubus felt uncomfortably pressed, his mind going blank. He had been sure that the cell in Dahkur would be enough to satisfy Dukat, and he didn’t know what to say now that his suggestion had been rejected.

There was a long pause while Kubus tried to come up with something useful. “Well, there is believed to be an especially large cell in Kendra Province. I have no hard evidence that they had any involvement, but—”

“Did I ask for hard evidence?” Dukat said coldly. “Can this cell be pinpointed?”

“I…believe…their hiding place is somewhat more definitive than some of the others, but—”

“Then why have they not been brought to my attention before now?”

Kubus suddenly realized what a terrible mistake he was making. “Well…sir…that cell…It’s rumored that one of their members…is the son of our religious leader—”

“The kai’s son?” Dukat said, his expression suddenly changing to reflect his apparent interest. Kubus felt his heart sink like a stone.

“Yes, sir, that’s correct. No Bajoran is willing to reveal their exact location, but there is a general idea of where they might be found, near the forest just outside of the Kendra provincial seat…”

“Issue a statement, Kubus. If this Kendra cell does not surrender themselves, I will be forced to destroy the surrounding villages. However, if anyone from Kendra is willing to reveal their location before they surrender…well, the villages will be spared, of course…” He trailed off, a self-satisfied smile surfacing.

“Prefect,” Kubus said nervously, aware that he was inching into dangerous territory, “I’m not sure you understand the gravity of what you ask. I must tell you, I think the cell from Dahkur—”

“Oak,” Dukat said, and Kubus blanched. No good could come following the gul’s use of his given name.

“I hesitate to bring this up at such a sensitive time,” the prefect said, “But Legate Kell recently suggested to me that it would be in my best interests to appoint a new Bajoran cabinet. He believed it would be beneficial to simply execute all the current members of the Bajoran government and start anew. Of course, I assured him that I had no intention of betraying those who had been faithful to me for such a long time.”

Kubus recognized the threat, but he could not be responsible for an ultimatum involving Kai Opaka’s son. “Gul, respectfully—I don’t believe that any Bajoran would willingly reveal the whereabouts of the kai’s son.”

“Well,” Dukat said, “we’ll see if you’re right, won’t we, Secretary?” He stood from his desk, turning his back on the old man, who wasn’t quite sure whether he had been dismissed.

“I’ll take care of your request as soon as I’m able,” Kubus said miserably, rising to go.

Dukat did not turn around. “You’ll take care of it now.”

“This is Alynna Nechayev, Vice-Admiral of Starfleet Command, representing the United Federation of Planets. I am attempting to reach Kalem Apren of Bajor. This is Alynna Nechayev, Vice-Admiral of Starfleet Command…”

Apren struggled for a moment to fight his way out of the haze of sleep. He could have sworn he’d heard his name coming from another room of the house—muffled, but still distinctly a woman’s voice, and something unusual about her accent…

Kalem Apren of Bajor…This is Alynna Nechayev…

Apren was on his feet at once, dashing for the comm system that was set up in the other room of his modest stone house. He was surprised that it hadn’t woken his wife—but then, her name had not been called. He had slept like the dead, considering the excitement that had taken place in the past twenty-four hours. The people of the Kendra Valley were exhausted with hopeful anticipation. Most Bajorans were accustomed to violent outbreaks on their world, but very few of those outbreaks resulted in much measure of Bajoran victory—and never a victory as wide-scale as this one seemed to be.

He seized the transmitter device at once, and began to speak.

“Hello, hello? This is Kalem Apren, citizen of Bajor. Is…is this channel secure?” He hesitated before continuing, but the voice spoke again before he could say anything else.

“Mister Kalem, I must warn you, this channel is not secure. I repeat, this channel is not secure.”

Did it even matter, now, if the Cardassians overheard? In fact, Apren wondered if it wasn’t better that they did, considering what had been happening. The woman went on. “I have contacted you by request of Keeve Falor, who sent word to a Federation starbase that you wished to speak with a representative of my government.”

“Vice-Admiral Alynna,” Apren said, fumbling over the correct way to address the alien woman. He spoke quickly, frantically—for he didn’t know how long this connection would hold out. “Thank you for contacting me…finally.” He added the last word as a loaded afterthought, for he knew, from Keeve and others, that this was not the first time Alynna Nechayev had been in contact with Bajorans. Just prior to the occupation she had worked as an operative for her people, trying to learn more about the Bajoran situation in hopes that her government could help. But in the end, the Federation’s political structure had barred her from interfering in the so-called annexation of Bajor to the Cardassian Union.

Apren had to admit to himself that Keeve Falor’s skepticism was well-placed, but he had to maintain hope, especially now that things seemed to be taking a turn. Even as they were speaking, Cardassian targets all over Bajor were burning, and Apren expected more destruction to take place before Cardassian forces could rein in the violence.

The woman spoke. “I have been hoping to contact someone to represent Bajor for a very long time now—someone, that is, besides Jas Holza or Kubus Oak…”

“Of course,” Apren said, impatient to get to the point of the conversation. “Perhaps you have heard of what is happening here today, Vice-Admiral.”

“Today? Please tell me what you mean.”

“Today has been a landmark in the fight for independence from our oppressors,” Apren said. “Dozens, possibly even hundreds of Cardassian targets were simultaneously attacked, releasing a worldwide flood of violence. Some Bajorans are fearful, it seems, from the reports I have been getting, but most are jubilant—and angry. Even farmers from the smaller villages are taking up arms. I have been taking reports all day long from contacts on every continent—”

“A global uprising,”the woman interrupted him, sounding surprised. “This is news indeed. Perhaps the situation will warrant Federation involvement, depending on the circumstances…”

Apren was disgusted. “Of course, you must discuss it with your diplomats, your politicians, and your military organizations before you can do anything. You cannot simply deduce that your assistance would be helpful here, and act accordingly. By the time you sort out whether it is prudent to become involved, it may be too late to do anything.”

“I understand your frustration,”the woman replied. “But the Federation is not a reactionary body. We do not simply travel from world to world, putting out fires. We must make a full assessment of the conflict, and whether it is our place to interfere.”

Apren took a breath. “Vice-Admiral,” he said, willing himself to sound as sincere as he could—he must put his reservations aside. “I asked you to contact me because I must humbly ask you for help. Not in driving away the Cardassians, for I firmly believe that we are capable of fighting our oppressors on our own. But once they are gone, we will need assistance to rebuild our infrastructure, our government, from the ground up. Without an established body to scaffold us, we will most likely not succeed.”

Apren could not read the woman’s reaction from her voice alone. “So…you ask only for help once Bajor has won her independence? Forgive me for saying so, but by what logic do you believe Bajor has the capacity to drive off the Cardassians now?”

“I don’t need logic,” Apren said firmly. He could not risk sharing his plans with a member of the Federation. “I have faith. I have long believed that we would be capable of triumph, but after tonight, I know it. And I know it will be soon.”

“I…believe you are wise to make preparations to govern your world,”the woman replied, “but it would not be prudent for the Federation to sanction Bajoran violence when we have a treaty with Cardassia.”

“I repeat, I am not asking for Federation assistance in our fight for independence,” Apren said firmly. “I already know I will not get it. I am only asking for assistance in the aftermath—a circumstance that I don’t believe will interfere with your…Prime Directive.”

The woman ignored the iciness in his tone. “Very well, Mister Kalem. The Federation will monitor the state of affairs on your world, and do what we deem appropriate. I will stay in touch with you, either directly or through Keeve Falor.”

The communication concluded, Apren returned to his bed, though he did not expect to sleep. He had been desperately trying to contact Jas Holza today, for he was certain that the former minister would finally agree to help supply the resistance with weapons; would finally agree to enter the B’hava’el system, once he got word of the tenuous grip the Cardassians now had. Holza had proven difficult to reach, but perhaps he would learn the news for himself now—through the Federation. Still, Kalem meant to keep trying to contact Valo III himself.

It was only a short time before his weariness overtook him, pulling him far from his troubles, and into a deep slumber. It was by hope that Apren had continued to function during all these years of the occupation, and never had his hope been more fecund than now.

Prylar Bek was only too aware of how delicate his position was, here at the shrine on Terok Nor. Dukat had allowed certain religious officials to practice on the Bajoran side of the station, but it had not been so long ago that all religious activities had been banned—and there was no telling what might motivate the prefect to ban them all over again. Bek had always done his best to stay nearly invisible where the Cardassians were concerned; any misstep on his part could lead to his immediate dismissal from the station—or even execution. As a spiritual adviser, he was far more conspicuous here than any of the other ordinary folk in ore processing—and Bek had seen plenty of them dragged off to be put to death for virtually no reason at all. He’d at least felt some degree of safety on the station when the Oralian had been here, the security chief who had seemed to genuinely want to help the Bajorans. But now he was alone, no allies to get him out of trouble if he needed them. He’d long had the unpleasant notion that he was only here because the Cardassians suspected he could be their conduit to Kai Opaka—for he had a rough system of communicating with her, though it was not direct. If the need ever arose, he spoke to the Vedek Assembly, who passed his word on to the kai. If the Cardassians had any ideas of torturing him to try and find her, he had often thought, they would be sorely disappointed. Even if he hadknown exactly where she was, he would never have delivered that information, not for anything.

As he lit a small duranja,a lamp honoring the dead, he heard the rustling of a long tunic; a Bajoran had entered his shrine. “Welcome, child of the Prophets,” he began, but as he turned to see the face of his visitor, his heart went cold at the sight of the stooped old man who stood before him. Kubus Oak was less welcome here than any Cardassian soldier, for he was the most notorious of the politicians who had first fallen in league with Cardassian forces, decades ago. Every Bajoran understood that without the consent of Kubus Oak, the Cardassians would never have gained the foothold they needed to overtake this world. Kubus was a Cardassian pawn—a willing one. For that reason, his name and face were deeply reviled.

“Why do you come here?” Bek said slowly. This wasn’t the first time Kubus Oak had been to the shrine. The old politician still retained some shred of his former faith and he worshiped at regularly scheduled services from time to time, but it was unprecedented for him to come here when services were not being held. Occasionally he was known to have given large sums of money toward the upkeep of certain shrines, primarily in his old district of Qui’al, a practice he no doubt expected to give him absolution for the many evils he had committed. But despite his position, he had never attempted to use his influence to protect the faith. Many believed that his attendance at services was simply a means to ingratiate himself with the very few Bajorans who still served him; even more felt that his presence at the shrines was nothing short of an affront to the Prophets themselves.

“Prylar Bek,” the old man said, with his usual hardness of voice. “I have come to ask you…to speak to the Vedek Assembly on my behalf…for I seek advice.”

“Advice?”

“Prylar…today I have been ordered to issue a statement…one which I fear will lead to my spiritual undoing.”

Bek was confused. Here was a man whose signature on a work order meant certain death for a Bajoran—and whose signature was affixed to thousands of such work orders. The man’s arrogant refusal to relinquish any fraction of his own power had caused him to land squarely in the lap of those oppressors who had taken Bajor as their own, with no regard for the fate of its people. What could Kubus Oak possibly have to fear regarding the state of his pagh—what could be worse than what he had already done? “What statement might that be, Secretary Kubus?”

“I am obliged…to inform the residents of the villages of Kendra Valley…that they must reveal the location of the resistance cell that hides in their region, or face total destruction.”

“The resistance cell…” Bek trailed off in horror. “Secretary, we must warn them—the cell. We must tell them to leave the Kendra Valley before the detection grid is restored—”

“It may already be too late,” Kubus told him. “The Cardassians have deployed troops to be stationed along the perimeters of the villages.”

Bek could not believe what was happening. “And who informed the prefect of this cell’s existence?” he asked, barely able to keep his voice under control in this holy place. “Who was responsible—”

“I had no choice!” Kubus said tightly. “You must understand my position. I have no allies left, only the Cardassians! If I fall from favor with them, then I have only the Prophets to answer to!”

“I would advise you to answer to them now,” Bek said. “You had better pray, Kubus Oak.”

“I have prayed!” Kubus insisted. “I have asked the Prophets to tell me what to do, which is what led me here, to you—”

“It is far too late for you to pray for guidance, Secretary,” Prylar Bek told him.

“But—”

“No, Secretary, if you are to pray, it must be for forgiveness. I hope They can forgive you—because I doubt any Bajoran ever could.” It was on that note that Prylar Bek turned away from Kubus, lighting another duranjaand making clear with his posture that he had nothing more to say to the man. If Kubus Oak did not set this thing right, then all the prayers in the world would not help him.