Текст книги "Dawn of the Eagles "

Автор книги: Stephani Danelle Perry

Соавторы: Gene Rodenberry,Britta Dennison
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Abor hesitated, deciding how much he wanted to elaborate. “She is affiliated with the Oralians,” he said. “I am sure of it.”

Esad chortled lightly. “Your certainty will not go far with Tain. But if you can prove it, Dost, then I suspect Tain might have reason to congratulate you.”

“I don’t want congratulations,” Abor said. “I want to be back in the field, where I belong.”

Esad smiled. “Well. I will let Tain know of your, ah, suspicions, and we’ll see what he has to say.”

Abor returned his smile with cordiality. “I will look forward to his reply.”

2

Thrax watched a string of the little orange-hued people as they unloaded the shipping containers from the open maw of their ship’s hull, making fairly efficient work of it, but Terok Nor’s security chief was wary of them nonetheless. Under his gaze, one of the creatures broke away from the others and strode across the cargo bay toward him.

“I am DaiMon Gart,” said the oily little man, indistinguishable from the rest of his crew.

“DaiMon,” Thrax acknowledged curtly, wondering if he might have met this particular Ferengi before—their names were as similar as their ugly faces and their loudly patterned outfits. Thrax manufactured a thin smile. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you, sir.”

“Oh, no, the pleasure is entirely mine,” Gart said eagerly. “In fact, I wonder if your commander might be interested in working out a trade agreement with my little venture. I noted that you Cardassians have been doing business with the Lissepians for quite some time…but did you also know that the Lissepians have been secretly tacking on a surcharge for their refueling costs? They are also notorious for overcharging their clients for unstable cargo. We Ferengi have no qualms about taking on virtually anything you want transported—even through Federation space, if necessary—and I do mean anything.”

“Ferengi have few qualms, I’ve found,” Thrax said mildly, though he was certain that Dukat would have no interest in striking up a “bargain” with Gart, or any other Ferengi. They were an intensely avaricious people—annoyingly so, in fact, with a reputation for deceit.

A noisy scuffle caught his attention, interrupting the flow of shipping containers through the short brigade of Gart’s crew.

“Tell your men to resolve their disputes somewhere other than on my station,” Thrax said sharply.

“Quark!” The DaiMon shouted. “Do your job, you ungrateful wretch, or you’ll be tossed out the airlock with that load of replicated greeworms you’ve been trying to feed us!”

One of the Ferengi shouted back to his DaiMon. The man, presumably Quark, carried one end of a long shipping container, assisted by a shorter Ferengi who grunted as the brigade came to a halt. “Those greeworms are not replicated!” Quark protested. “I spent a fortune on them, I’ll have you know!”

Another of the Ferengi spoke up. “I’ve had those greeworms, and they’re not only replicated, they’re awful! He’s been lying on his expense reports, DaiMon!”

“Why you—” Quark shouted, dropping his half of the shipping container to lunge for his crewmate’s excuse for a neck.

“Enough!” Thrax roared. “If you damage that equipment, I can guarantee that Gul Dukat will charge you double for it—and what you don’t have in currency, he’ll be happy to take out of your hides!” If there was one thing the security chief had learned during his years on Terok Nor, it was the effectiveness of making threats on the prefect’s behalf. Dukat had a reputation too, after all.

The two Ferengi immediately went back to work, but their argument continued, whispered now.

Gart began his pitch again, perhaps thinking that if he grinned wider, exposing more of his filed teeth, Thrax would believe him sincere—but behind him, the sniping Ferengi were back at it, their voices rising even louder than before.

“Quark! Kurga!” Gart turned and shouted. “I warned you!”

The smaller of the two Ferengi, the one with a mournful expression that appeared to be permanent, pointed to the other. “He is trying to cheat you, Gart! He overcharged you for that last run of synthale, and I have evidence that he has really and truly been trying to poison you! He wants to—”

“Stop it at once!” Thrax demanded, just before Quark made another clumsy attempt to swing at his crewmate. Thrax was not the sort of man to draw a weapon without worthy cause. He stepped closer to the line of squabbling aliens and reached out to grab one of the Ferengi by the ear, which caused the most horrible screeching noise Thrax thought he’d ever heard. The other men in the line promptly dropped their containers with a collective clatter and clapped their hands over their ears. Thrax recognized the efficacy of such a squeal in the realm of defense. For a people with hearing so much more sensitive than his own, the sound had to be excruciating. Indeed, despite his own rather mediocre hearing, Thrax’s head seemed to be splitting in two because of the horrid sound, and he quickly let go of the man’s ear. The screaming ceased, but the scuffle threatened to continue before the Ferengi named Quark dashed through the cargo bay and out into the corridor.

“Good riddance,” Gart snapped, and turned back to Thrax. “Now, about our negotiations—”

“Don’t press your luck,” Thrax said. “Just unload the cargo and get out of here. Unless you want my people to unload it for you.”

The threat—that he would have the Ferengi’s ship searched, undoubtedly uncovering vast quantities of stolen supplies or expensive contraband—did the trick.

“Of course, yes, it’s a pleasure,” Gart said meekly, and turned back to his crew, who had quickly and quietly resumed their work.

Thrax watched them carefully until the last container was unloaded, wondering if the fight was really a means to distract him while another of the Ferengi robbed the station blind. He’d better find this Quark right away and get him off the station as expediently as possible. The last thing Terok Nor needed was an unattended Ferengi; the Bajorans gave him enough trouble as it was.

Natima ran a finger over the edge of her glass. The bit of kanarshe’d already sipped had gone straight to her head. She would not have chosen kanarfor herself, but when she’d arrived, Russol had already put in the drink orders, leaving Natima to accept whatever was brought to her.

Natima liked the restaurant he’d chosen. It was dark and pretty and too expensive. She could remember the first time she had come here, to celebrate her apprenticeship with the Information Service. She’d had no family with which to come, and so she had come alone, to toast her own unlikely success.

Most people followed the career trajectory that had been laid out for them by their parents when they were children. Natima had been left to find her own path after being turned out by the orphanage where she’d grown up on Cardassia II. She had applied for the apprenticeship and gotten it, beating out several others with familial connections to the Information Service. It was the proudest and most exhilarating moment of her life, not likely ever to be replicated. It was the first time she’d felt herself to be a true member of the Union, self-sufficient and able to serve.

It was impossible not to remember that sensation as she sat here, across from Russol, sipping kanarlike any other Cardassian—but deep inside she felt different, and she would always feel different. It was a topic she would never be comfortable discussing with someone like Russol. Another orphan might understand, perhaps, but very few grew up to be productive members of society. Natima didn’t have much chance of speaking to another, at least not one from her own world. On Bajor, it had been a different story.

Natima brought herself back into the present, mentally filing away volatile topics for another time. “I don’t much care for kanar,” she said, being truthful, but also playfully irritable.

“I apologize, then,” Russol said, and in his earnest reply Natima saw that he had not asked her here in order to be coy. She frowned slightly into her drink. Of course he would have no romantic interest in her—no man ever seemed to. She supposed she scared them away, but she was too old and set in her ways to feel more than a moment’s regret. She’d been ignored by better.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “It won’t hurt me to try something new.” She took another sip, no longer caring quite so much if she became a little inebriated.

“Miss Lang,” Russol began.

“Call me Natima,” she said, not so much to flirt with him, since he’d made it clear that wasn’t his purpose, but to eschew as much of the yoke of formality as possible. Natima found it tiresome after a while, trying to keep up appearances. It had never come naturally to her, as she’d never had anyone to teach her the nuances of appropriate social behavior from the time she was a child; it had all been learned by trial and error, with sometimes embarrassing results.

“Natima, it has come to my attention that you’re…not in full agreement with the direction the military government has begun to take in the past few decades.” He looked at her uneasily.

Natima narrowed her eyes, reflexively searching for traps. “Everyone has their own ideas about the way things ought to be run,” she said ambiguously, and took a larger sip of her drink.

“Yes, I suppose it’s true, though most decline to discuss it.”

“Certainly in a place as public as this one,” she said, lowering her voice slightly.

“So…you would be more comfortable if we discussed this topic elsewhere?”

Natima considered it. What was he asking her, exactly? Did Russol’s dissent go deeper than mere complaints coming off the front lines? She wasn’t sure how to respond, but some string of curiosity deep in her mind had been plucked, and she could not pretend she did not hear the humming.

“It…it depends,” she said, again ambiguous. What might she be getting herself into?

“Natima, I’ve done quite a bit of checking up on you, and I believe I can trust you,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve reviewed the stories you’ve done in the past, and though it was often subtle, I’ve definitely detected a…tone from you, and from your stories. I feel as though a person like you…could be useful in what I am trying to do.”

Natima swallowed before answering, trying to keep her voice indifferent. “This is starting to seem a little dangerous,” she said airily, and finished her drink.

“It is dangerous,” Russol admitted. “You and I both know that Central Command has eyes and ears everywhere. They probably already know what I’m up to. If they don’t, then it’s a given that the Obsidian Order does.”

Natima wrinkled her nose at what seemed to be a proclamation of defeat. “Then why are you pursuing…whatever it is you’re pursuing, Glinn Russol?”

“Because I love Cardassia,” he replied without hesitation. “And I feel that preservation of her most basic ideals is worth the risk of execution. I don’t have a family, and neither do you. I feel that my first obligation is to Cardassia. I wonder, Natima, if you might feel similarly?”

A man came around to their table to ask after their order, and Natima did not hesitate to request another kanar. Russol’s raised eyeridge made her smile. “I think I’ve developed a taste for it,” she said, indicating the empty glass in her hands.

Russol watched her, waited, and she made her decision.

“I agree that this topic might be best discussed elsewhere. Where and when would you like to meet?” The words rang slightly in her ears as she spoke them. If Russol was indeed trying to trick her, then she had probably just implicated herself. But she studied his gaze once more, and felt assured that he was not. Either that, or he was in the Order. She knew their agents trained to be as convincingly sincere as Russol was now being.

“I have a few friends I think you might be interested in meeting,” Russol told her. “I am hoping that they will benefit as much from the encounter as you will.”

The steward brought Natima her second drink, and this time, she downed it in a single draught.

Mora Pol was clearing up his desk for the night—a mere formality, but one that gave him some sense that he still maintained a shred of control over his own life. He felt overwhelmed by despair this evening—not a new sensation for him, though it was especially crushing tonight. The system he had been working on for over six years was finally complete. It was the sort of thing that should have given any scientist some measure of triumph, but not for Doctor Mora—for the system in question was a weapon, to be used against his own people.

Collaborator. Murderer.

He pushed the thoughts away and tapped off the lights in his laboratory, a space he shared with the Cardassian scientist with whom he had been working these past six and a half years. He headed for the door, intending to go to his cramped quarters at the far end of the building.

Mora was the only scientist who lived in the building in addition to working in it, for he was the only Bajoran left at the Bajoran Institute of Science. The name, of course, was a holdover from the days before the Cardassians had taken over this world, and the Bajoran scientists who had once worked here had gradually disappeared, one by one, until only Mora Pol was left. His job was to conduct research, but his primary task was to keep the Cardassians convinced that he was still one of their allies, one of the few Bajorans who remained allegiant to the occupying forces that had invaded their world. The Cardassians who ran the institute had decided, some years ago, that it might be easier to assure Mora’s continued loyalty if he did not leave the institute, and so it was here that he made his bed. He had, at first, been allowed visitors on a very limited basis, always with a Cardassian ear strategically placed so he could not reveal anything sensitive to his family when they came. But Mora knew that it was humiliating for them to be associated with a collaborator, and so he had long ago asked them to stop coming. He thought they would return if he were to request it, but he could not bring himself to do so.

His self-disgust had blossomed over the years, was finally coming to full flower. He’d never set out to hurt anyone, had cooperated with the Cardassians because he worked for the government, and even now, the few corrupt Bajoran figureheads that still remained—Kubus Oak and Kan Nion came to mind—continued to insist that they comply with Cardassian policy. Mora had been so afraid for so long, he’d fallen into the habit of willing, even eager compliance. He’d saved his own life, but he was starting to believe the price had been too high, after all.

“Doctor Mora?”

He started a little as his name was spoken suddenly from somewhere in the darkness of his lab, and he put the lights back on, exasperated. “What is it, Odo?”

The shape-shifter was in his tank, the vessel where he regenerated each night and where Mora often implored him to remain so he would stay out of the way of the other research that was conducted here. Mora’s lab partner, a woman named Kalisi Reyar, did not much care for Odo’s active presence in the lab while she was reviewing her notes. Odo had become more of a side project for Mora in recent years, since his research with Doctor Reyar had begun to take precedence over everything else he was doing. The tests and drills he ran with the mysterious life-form had slowed to a near halt.

Odo’s “head” was glimmering in its partially solid state, the rest of his mass a stretching, shining, amorphic liquid. The effect was unsettling, though Mora had seen Odo in this semi-humanoid state many times.

“Doctor Mora, now that your project with Doctor Reyar is concluded, will you and I resume our work?”

“Odo, please. If you’re going to speak to me, I’d prefer it if you would become completely humanoid. When you do that…it unnerves me.”

The liquid spilled out of the tank and Odo’s shape defined, the nearly transparent quality of his “face” instantly hardening into the appearance of an oddly smooth-featured Bajoran, his tall, stiff body seemingly clad in a plain jumpsuit—a concession to Bajoran and Cardassian notions of propriety. Odo had difficulty perfecting the form of a convincing person, though there were times when he was feeling especially confident that his bone structure looked more realistic than usual; when he was nervous, the shape of his jaw and the curves of his ears appeared particularly unfinished. Mora had discussed it with him many times, which seemed to give the shape-shifter even more difficulty in maintaining his appearance. The scientist did not mean to aggravate him about it, but it frustrated him somewhat that Odo’s progress in that area had stalled so significantly.

“You and I will resume the old schedule of testing just as soon as my superiors deem it necessary,” Mora said briskly. “In the meantime, you can continue to study on your own, and we will work together for a few hours in the evenings, when my other responsibilities don’t take my attention from you.”

He felt a little sorry for the creature, supposing him to be lonely without the same regimen of nearly constant supervision he’d enjoyed in the beginning. Odo had always seemed withdrawn, and really, he was essentially still a child. His appearance and voice suggested an adult male, but Mora knew better. He would probably not be able to live the life of an adult for at least another ten years or so, a thought that actually gave Mora quite a bit of comfort—for, as long as the shape-shifter needed him, the Cardassians would need him, as well. Doctor Yopal, the director of the Institute, had always maintained enough curiosity regarding Odo that Mora doubted very much she’d ever put him back on the shelf where he’d sat for so long before Mora had been assigned to him. And what else could be done with him? He was almost helpless without Mora, and even Yopal wasn’t cruel enough to just turn him out—unless, of course, she decided to assign a Cardassian scientist to work with him. That possibility did trouble Mora from time to time, but he felt somewhat assured that it was unlikely to happen on Yopal’s watch.

“You must regenerate now, Odo,” Mora instructed the shape-shifter.

“I have been regenerating for many hours,” Odo told the scientist, and Mora frowned.

“Then you may access my comnet link to study. I need to go to bed now. I will see you in the morning. I will probably have time to do some work with you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good night, Doctor Mora,” the shape-shifter said in his gravelly fashion, his voice heavy with a trace of what seemed to be sadness, though Mora could never quite tell if it was reflective of actual mood.

Mora headed to the small, dark room that was barely bigger than a closet—his home. He took off his shoes and coat and sat on the edge of his small bed, trying to push from his mind the duties he would have to perform in the next few days. He would help with the implementation of Doctor Reyar’s project, an anti-aircraft system that could target and eliminate Bajoran terrorist raiders as they left the atmosphere. Mora had done his best to stall the work for as long as he could without making it obvious, but now there was nothing more he could do—at least, nothing that wouldn’t result in his own execution. The system would go up with or without him, and what would happen to Odo if Mora was gone?

Yes, I must think of Odo, he told himself, finally slumping onto his cot and falling into a troubled sleep.

Dukat knotted his hands beneath his desk, fighting to keep his expression free of contempt as the Ferengi stepped into his office. Quark, he called himself. Dukat wondered if he should have asked Thrax to attend this little meeting. He didn’t want to seem mistrustful, to put the creature on the defensive, but one couldn’t be too careful when it came to Ferengi. And what did this one intend, now that his ship had stranded him on the station? Dukat wished very much that he could avoid even addressing the topic. He had considered having the man arrested on some trumped-up charge or other, but Thrax was strangely reluctant to make arrests under what he considered a “dishonest” premise. It was a trait that had led Dukat to consider his reassignment more than once.

“You’ve asked to speak to me?” Dukat began.

“Yes, Your, uh, Highness. You see, I don’t want to go back to my homeworld. There’s trouble waiting there for me. I don’t really have many options at the moment, and I’m wondering if it might be possible for me to…stay…here.”

Dukat did not answer him. Quark had a crafty look to him, his eyes bright with it, but at least he wasn’t going to cower and bootlick, as Dukat had half expected.

“I have money,” the creature insisted. “My father left me an inheritance. It’s just a matter of getting the bank on Ferenginar to transfer the funds to a local depository so I can access it. I could rent a room from you, maybe even start a business here. You’d do well to have a savvy entrepreneur such as myself on your station.” Quark grinned, exposed his pointed teeth. “I could bring in travelers from all over the galaxy, give a bit of notoriety to this spot. Maybe you’d be able to establish better trade relationships if your station had a little more to offer. Maybe you’d be able to—”

“I don’t really like Ferengi,” Dukat said.

“Well, I suppose you’re not alone in that,” Quark said smoothly, “but I must tell you that my people have been victim to a great deal of slander and misrepresentation. We’re trying to make our way in the galaxy, just like everyone else, and we have no interest in conflict—all we want is to make a little money for ourselves. The truth is, fortune generally follows a Ferengi whenever he sets up a business venture on another world. You might be surprised to learn that on some worlds, Ferengi are considered good luck.”

Dukat stared. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Quark said. He hadn’t been so bold as to sit, but he leaned on one of the chairs in front of Dukat’s desk, the picture of casual arrogance. “Many people regard matters of economics to be something of a mystery, but it’s not like that to my people. Wherever we go, prosperity goes with us. A wise man might be looking for a way to share in a bit of that prosperity—”

“If you’re going to stay here,” Dukat interrupted, “I’m going to need to see the money up front. I’m not talking about credit, either. I’m not talking about a thumbscan on a padd, or a signature. I’m talking about hard currency, Mister Quark.”

“Currency, sure. I can get you that. I can do whatever you want. Just let me stay, Mister Dukat. Let me—”

“It’s Gul Dukat.”

“Gul Dukat, right. So, you’ll let me stay, won’t you?” The Ferengi had assumed a begging posture, his wrists pressed together in a strange demonstration of supplication.

“Hard currency,” Dukat repeated.

The Ferengi nodded again, his hands clasped together now in what Dukat perceived as feigned gratitude. “Would you consider working out some kind of a deal? Perhaps we could conceive of a system where you might offer some kind of a discount—reliant on my timely payment, of course—but then if I were to go into delinquency, you could charge a penalty. It would be a clever way for you to make a profit from—”

“I’m not interested in making a deal,” Dukat told the Ferengi. “I just want to see my money. By the end of the day, preferably. Otherwise, there are plenty of transports out of here with a reasonable likelihood of providing you passage on credit.”

Quark did not look happy, his bright eyes narrowing slightly, the massive ears on either side of his head seeming almost to droop. Dukat dismissed him, feeling comfortable that he would not have to see more of this Ferengi after today.

The Ferengi stopped at the door, turned to look at Dukat again. “I wonder if I might be able to interest you in something other than money. You see, the crew of my freighter left me several crates of unreplicated foodstuffs in the cargo bay—goods of the very finest quality—but I don’t know if I have the means to unload so much product without a go-between. Perhaps you’d be interested in—”

“I have no use for Ferengi fare,” Dukat said with some disgust. What the Ferengi called food, Cardassians paid good money to have exterminated.

“It’s not only Ferengi cuisine I’ve got in there,” Quark insisted. “I have contacts and suppliers all over the galaxy. I routinely purchased all kinds of foreign delicacies—anything I could get below cost, I acquired—although my DaiMon didn’t always care for cuisine from Benzar, or Andor. A man such as yourself probably has a much broader palate than an idiot like Gart, though, am I right?”

Dukat sighed. “I don’t think so, Mister Quark.”

Quark looked even more unhappy than he did before. “That’s perishable cargo,” he muttered to himself. “There must be someone around here who can appreciate—”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Now, if you don’t mind…”

The Ferengi nodded to him, somewhat compulsively, before finally taking his leave, and Dukat let out the breath he had been holding. He found the Ferengi to have something of an objectionable odor, a smell that reminded Dukat of Bajor’s swamps—of moss and muck and the larvae of biting insects. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would have an interest in food offered by this man, not unless it was a person who was starving to death.

Doctor Mora’s primary job was to calibrate the equipment for Doctor Reyar as she prepared the computer systems on Terok Nor, to process the new transmissions from the surface. He was somewhat in awe of the station, and it certainly felt strange to have left the walls of the institute, walls with which he had grown contemptuously familiar in the past seven years.

“Doctor Mora, must I again remind you to concentrate on your work?” Reyar’s crisp voice interrupted Mora’s thoughts as he looked around the computer core, its strange colors and severe angles such a far cry from Bajoran design. The air was hot and dry. He felt as though he were in the epicenter of the Cardassian mind, surrounded as he was by these foreign terminals and flashing streams of Cardassian alphanumerics. Would the whole of Bajor someday look like this? Mora hoped he would not live to see it.

“I…apologize,” he stammered, and turned back to his work, slowly pecking at his keypad. He knew Cardassian characters well enough now, but his fluency would always be stilted. It might have been different if he had learned the language as a child instead of as an adult—pointless to even think of it; he suffered enough for not being Cardassian. And there was the matter of the Cardassians’ eidetic memory, though Mora had long since learned that it was less developed in some than in others—and Reyar fell into the category of those who struggled. He felt reasonably certain that her intelligence and ability at rote memorization were somewhat on a par with his own, but that did not still his fear of her. Of all of them.

Mora helped her develop the recognition software that would process telemetry from each of the scanning stations that had been built on Bajor’s surface. Erected by labor crews of Bajorans that had been recruited from the hill territories of each continent, the towers would transmit constant scans of Bajoran airspace, searching for non-Cardassian flyers. If the system detected an unauthorized craft, particle beam weapons would lock onto the transgressor and blow it out of the sky. The system would go online at the end of this week, but Mora had an idea to get word to the resistance before then. It was a long shot, and it was dangerous, but Mora felt that he had to take the chance. His cousin, a farmer in the village of Ikreimi, had always claimed to know someone who was affiliated with the freedom fighters. If Mora could send word to his parents, asking to have his cousin come and visit him at the institute, he might be able to pass on some valuable information before it was too late…

“Stand up, Mora,” Reyar instructed him. Puzzled, he did as he was told. She took out a small scanning device and began to wave it up and down the length of his body.

He cleared his throat. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

She smiled to herself, clearly pleased. “I suppose you thought I brought you up here for your expertise, hm?”

He cleared his throat again. “I’m your…lab partner, Doctor Reyar. You needed an assistant…”

“I needed a cooperative Bajoran, to enter your biospecs into the new system’s recognition software.”

Mora was puzzled. “But it’s an anti-aircraft system. Why—?”

“There’s another aspect to it that perhaps you weren’t aware of, Doctor Mora.” He could tell by the delightedly smug expression on her face that she was about to tell him what it was, though she’d obviously taken some pains to conceal it from him. How like her, to seek pleasure by making him uncomfortable.

“I recently decided to add another function to the sensor sweeps,” she went on. “As you know, it took me a long time to fine-tune the targeting sensors so that we will avoid accidents involving Cardassian aircraft, to compensate for the effects of Bajor’s highly variable atmosphere…”

“A great many tests,” Mora said.

“Yes, Mora, more tests than I had anticipated. How odd, that every time I thought I had adjusted it perfectly, it seemed even more misaligned than it had been before.” She gave him a hard look.

Mora felt sick. He shouldn’t have been so obvious in sabotaging her calibrations, though he’d done his best to make each change appropriately subtle. Of course, Reyar had her suspicions, but Mora knew that Yopal wouldn’t listen to a word of it—the director of the institute had never cared for Reyar. “Oh?” he finally croaked.

“Yes, well, never mind that. I confess, part of what took me so long to perfect this system was my own distraction. Halfway toward completion I had the idea to combine this project with another that I envisioned, and I shifted much of my focus to that. Yopal barely knows anything of it—I cleared it with the prefect, of course, no thanks to our esteemed director.” She smiled now, her self-satisfaction back in full force.